The Silver Squire

‘Dashwood? Dashwood wants to marry you?’

The disbelief was plain and made Emma smile a trifle wryly. ‘He has expressed a desire for a sedate, mature spinster to wed. She must be biddable and, I’ve no doubt, so grateful to attain the marital state, she will not challenge him about any of his disgusting goings-on. I imagine he has no more use for her than as a brood mare.’

Matthew gave her an ironic, sideways smile. ‘Biddable? You, Emma?’

‘Exactly,’ Emma agreed, matching his rueful tone. ‘My mother has a persuasive way with my attributes when she scents a bachelor…whatever his character.’ She sobered and gazed into the distance. ‘Thank you for your proposal, Matthew. I will give it very serious thought in the next few days. And thank you for your kind hospitality and for bringing me to my lodgings tonight. I was so relieved on finding you still resided at Nonsuch Cottage and were not now…remarried.’ An amber glance arrowed at his profile. ‘I know you were keen for your children to have a mother’s care and as I had not heard from you for so long…’

‘I’m sorry not to have replied to your letter. I seem to find so little free time. A pathetic excuse, I know,’ he admitted on a shake of the head. ‘And there has never been anyone else that I’ve met who would suit the children so well as you. You’re so kind and dependable. You’re a genteel lady and educated to such a degree you could tutor them yourself,’ he enthused.

‘And what of you? Do I suit you so very well?’ Emma asked softly, sadly.

‘But of course! That goes without saying, Emma.’

‘This is a respectable house and we keep reg’lar hours. No gentlemen allowed in the parlour after nine o’ the clock. No gentlemen allowed in the upper chambers at any time. Breakfast afore eight or none. Dinner in the parlour if you wants at a shillin’ for a plate o’ hot ordinary.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Emma told Mrs Keene wearily as she glanced about the spartan room. But at least it looked clean and the bedlinen fresh.

‘So wot’s a nice young lady like yourself doin’ alone in Bath?’ the woman asked with friendly inquisitiveness, now she had laid down the rules of the house. ‘Kin in the area, have you, wot won’t board you?’ The plump woman shelved her crossed arms on her ample bosom. A knowing nod preceded, ‘I gets plenty o’ such spinsters. Poor relations an’ all they’ll get off them wot’s better sitchwated is mutton ‘n porter once or twice a week an’ a faded gown or two. Not that it’s none of my concern, ‘o course, or I’m complainin’, like…for it suits me…’ She wagged an emphasising finger.

‘I’m seeking employment. I have no local family. Just a friend.’ What had she said? Seeking employment? Why had she said that? Why not? echoed back. The logical answer to every pressing problem had helpfully presented itself. She had very little cash; she needed some time to think while she mulled over Matthew’s proposal and meanwhile she needed somewhere to stay. There was little doubt in her mind that Mrs Keene would show her the cobbles as soon as she showed Mrs Keene an I O U.

Her landlady sucked at her few yellowing teeth. ‘Seekin’ employment, are you, miss? Well, not that it’s none of my concern, o’ course, but I’ll keep me eyes and ears open for you. I’m known to run a respectable lodgin’s for genteel ladies wot’s on ‘ard times, and it’s not unknown for those as wants to take on to come to me first for their quality staff. No agency fees, you see. ‘Course I accepts a small consideration—’

‘Thank you…I should be grateful for help…’ Emma cut the woman off. Undoing the ribbons of her bonnet, she dropped the dusty tan-coloured article onto the bed. She shook free her thick fawn hair, raking it back from her creamy brow, aware of the woman’s gimlet eyes on her. Opening her carpet bag, she studiedly hinted, ‘I’m a little tired…’

‘O’ course you are, miss. Will you be wantin’ any supper?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve already dined.’

‘Tomorrow will you be wantin’ any supper?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Seven o’ the clock in the downstairs parlour. Tomorrow’s bacon ‘n carrots. That’ll be a shillin’ an’ you pay afore you eat.’ With a gap-toothed smile at Emma, Mrs Keene was closing the door.

‘You’re late!’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Richard, you are becoming quite a trial to your mother,’ Miriam Du Quesne stiffly informed her eldest son.

He seemed unmoved by her complaint and gave her an impenitent smile as he made for the stairs and took them two at a time.

‘Come back! We have guests!’ was hissed in a furious undertone at his broad, dark-jacketed back.

‘And you’re a wonderful hostess, my dear,’ trailed back, bored, over his shoulder as he neared the top of the graceful sweep of mahogany bannisters.

‘If you’re not down these stairs and in the drawing room in ten…fifteen minutes,’ she generously amended, in an enraged choke, ‘well, I shall…I shall just…’

Sir Richard Du Quesne sauntered back to the top of the curving stairwell and looked past the priceless Austrian crystal chandelier, suspended low, at the top of his mother’s elegant coiffure. ‘You shall what?’ he jibed fondly. ‘Beat me? Shut me in my room? Make me go without my supper?’

‘Richard! This is no joke!’ his mother screeched, small fists scrunching her elegant lavender skirts in her rage. Aware that she was creasing the satin, she flung it away and tried desperately to smooth it. She resorted to stamping a small foot instead, while almost jigging on the creamy marble in exasperation. Abruptly changing tack, she stilled, gave him a bright smile and wheedled, ‘Please, dear, don’t keep us all waiting longer. Dinner has been on the warm since eight o’clock. It is now nine-thirty and we are all quite ravenous.’ A tinkly laugh preceded, ‘I’m quite wore out with finding conversation to amuse us all. Besides,’ gritted out through pearly teeth, ‘nothing much is audible over the growling of empty stomachs.’

Her son gave her a conciliatory smile. ‘I’ll be but a few minutes. I’ll just freshen up…’

‘Oh, you look well enough,’ she said irritably, gesturing him down the stairs. He did too, she realised as her blue eyes lingered on her tall, handsome son’s appearance. His sun-streaked blond hair was too long, but suited him that way, she grudgingly allowed. His charcoal-grey clothes were expensive and well-styled; nothing she said or slipped to his valet seemed to make him dress in brighter colours. The bronzed skin tone he had acquired abroad had at first horrified her but, she had to admit, gave him a wickedly foreign air, and those cool grey eyes…A delicious shiver raced through her for they so reminded her of her darling John.

Miriam focussed her far-away gaze back on the top of the stairs to note that, while daydreaming of her late husband, their son had disappeared. She pouted, flounced about and stalked back towards the drawing room with the welcome tidings for their graces the Duke and Duchess of Winstanley and their daughter, Lady Penelope, that dinner was now, indeed, very nearly served.

‘I know where you’ve been, you lucky, randy dog.’

Richard dried his face with the towel, lobbed it carelessly towards the grand four-poster on a raised dais and glanced at Stephen. ‘Where have I been?’ he asked as he fastened his diamond shirt studs and walked to the mirror to inspect his appearance.

‘Come on, this is your dribbling sibling you’re talking to. She must have a jolie amie for your best brother. Preferably blonde but I ain’t fussy.’

‘You’re married.’

‘I’m bored.’

Richard’s icy grey eyes swerved to the reflection of his younger brother’s shrewd, smiling face. ‘You’re married. You’ve got a lovely wife and two beautiful children. What more do you want, for God’s sake?’

Stephen Du Quesne shrugged himself irritably to the window and gazed into the dusk. The fluttering silver-leaved whitebeams that lined the mile-long drive to Silverdale swayed like sinuous, ghostly dancers in the light evening breeze. ‘A little excitement…that’s what I want. A little of what you’ve got…that’s what I want. You get risqué women and I get responsibility. It ain’t fair, I tell you. You’re seven years older than me.’

‘No one forced you to propose to Amelia when you were twenty-one. As I recall you wanted her and nothing was going to stand in your way. Not even her constant rebuffs. You finally won her over and the proof that you were lucky to get it so right is just along the corridor, asleep in the nursery. Grow up.’

‘That’s rich coming from you,’ Stephen moaned as he stalked his elder brother to the head of the stairs. ‘You’re thirty-three and still gadding around as though you’ve dropped a decade somewhere. Even that reprobate of a best friend of yours has been wed these past three years and is now as dangerous as a pussy-cat by all accounts.’

Richard turned a smile on him, knowing immediately to whom he referred. ‘That’s love for you, Stephen,’ he said. ‘It can creep up on you when you’re least expecting it…even when you’re twenty-one and nowhere near ready. There’s no shame in giving in to it.’

‘Such an eloquent expert on finer feelings, aren’t you?’ Stephen ribbed him with a grin. ‘Hard to believe most of your intercourse with the fairer sex is so basic and carried out while you’re horizontal.’

‘Shut up, Stephen, you are drooling,’ Richard said, with a clap on the back for his sulking brother.

As they hit the marble-flagged hallway, Richard swung his brother about by the shoulder and studied him gravely. ‘Look, if you’re desperate for a little illicit entertainment, go ahead. But don’t expect me to arrange it for you, or clear up the mess when it all goes horribly wrong. Amelia might just decide that what’s sauce for the gander…’ He trailed off with an explicit raising of dark brows.

‘She wouldn’t dare!’ Stephen exploded, his face draining of colour. ‘Besides,’ he blustered as his older brother choked a laugh at the terror on his face, ‘she’d never know…I’d be discreet.’

‘Of course she’d know, you fool,’ Richard scoffed. ‘There’d be plenty of concerned ladies just itching to break the news. For her own good, of course. If you want a mistress, go and stand in the Upper Assembly rooms and look available. In five minutes you’ll be knee-deep in frustrated wives, impoverished widows…’ His long fingers tightened emphatically on his brother’s shoulder. ‘You’re both envied, you know. You’ve a good marriage: you love your wife and she adores you and that’s not easily found. It makes for a lot of green eyes and spiteful intentions. If you want to know the truth, I envy you.’

‘Good,’ Stephen said with slightly malicious relish. ‘I think our dear mama is under the impression it’s definitely time you were jealous no more.’

Sir Richard Du Quesne stopped dead and spun on his heel. ‘God, she’s not matchmaking again! Who’s here? Not the Petershams?’

Stephen swayed his fair head, blue eyes alight with merriment. ‘But of course not. We’re aiming so much higher, dear one, now you’re so much richer. Now you’ve added another million to the Du Quesne coffers, dear Mama scents a ducal connection…and as they were visiting in the neighbourhood…’

Stephen’s drawling teasing came to an abrupt halt and the laughter in his eyes was replaced by horrified entreaty. For no more than a second he watched his brother striding towards the double oaken doorway, an exceedingly loud and awful curse flying in his wake.

Scooting after him, Stephen grabbed at his elbow and started dragging him backwards. ‘If you disappear, so do I. I’ll go and stand in the Upper Assembly rooms; you see if I don’t. Mother will kill me if I let you escape!’

‘I will kill you if you do not let go of my arm,’ his brother sweetly informed him.

Stephen removed his hand and made a show of straightening the crumpled charcoal material of Richard’s sleeve. ‘Come on, Dickie,’ he wheedled. ‘Just smile and make them swoon a little.’ Richard’s grim countenance was unaltered. ‘Well, just tell them about your money; that’ll make them swoon a little.’

Richard tried to suppress a smile. He gazed at the rust watered-silk wall then back at his brother’s anxious face. ‘If I wasn’t so damned hungry, I’d be out of here.’ A tanned hand settled amicably on Stephen’s shoulder as they turned towards the dining room. ‘I suppose I should suck up a bit to his grace: I want the old bastard to grant me a lease on the land just east of the Tamar. There’s a fortune in that clay-slate; I’ll stake my life on it.’

‘Better suck up to his daughter, then. You know the way to a fond father’s heart is through his darling spinster offspring. And she is sweet on you, you know. You also know the old goat’s concerned for his pheasants and won’t let you disturb them with your noisy mining.’

‘There’s a fortune in copper there and I will have it some day. But don’t tell Ross,’ Richard laughed. ‘He’s convinced it’s on the Cornish side in granite. Fool! Sometimes he lets his Celtic pride get in the way of his common sense.’

‘Rival adventurers!’ Stephen proclaimed. ‘You’ll bring him in on the deal, in any case. Me too, I hope! I’ve a growing family to support.’

‘Make sure it’s just the one legitimate family to support,’ Richard told his brother, ‘and perhaps I’ll do that.’

Richard scowled at the ceiling. It was time he thought of marrying and producing an heir. A duke’s daughter was soft on him. She was attractive enough to bed. The fact that she irritated the hell out of him with her vanity and her vacuous giggling was of little consequence: once she was breeding they need have little to do with one another other than on formal family occasions. Apart from exercising a little more subtlety, his licentious lifestyle need not alter. If Penelope found herself a beau it would not unduly worry him so long as she was reciprocally discreet. He could afford to be generous: her father was sitting, he was sure, on one of the richest copper lodes ever. And he was determined to mine the area.

The two brothers exchanged a rueful grimace before fixing smiles and entering the dining room. Richard’s grin sugared for his mother as he saw her glower at him. Then he looked at the brunette, her face coyly concealed behind a fluttering fan. Brown eyes peeked at him over the top of ivory sticks. His teeth met but he bowed gallantly.

Damn you, David! he inwardly groaned as he thought of his best friend and his wedded bliss. He’d set a vexing precedent by marrying for love and being so nauseatingly happy and faithful. And he and David were too close…too alike…always had been since childhood.

Richard knew that aching void deep within David that only Victoria could fill sometimes yawned wide in him too. And the restlessness, the emptiness just wouldn’t go away no matter how hard it was ignored or crammed full of commerce or self-indulgent lust.

Think of the copper…and beating Ross to it, he encouraged himself as he proceeded into the room, with a wry, private smile. He pulled a chair close and sat beside his grace the Duke of Winstanley. ‘How are the pheasants?’ he asked gravely.

Chapter Three

‘What is for dinner today, Mrs Keene? Not bacon and carrots again, surely?’ Emma frowned and sniffed delicately at the wafting salty aroma.

‘Not at all, my dear.’ Her landlady shuffled into her room, apparently unruffled by this aspersion on her unvarying menus.

Emma’s tawny eyes brightened and she let her novel drop. She had been perched on the window seat for the past hour, hoping that perhaps Matthew might call again today to take her for a walk or a drive into the countryside. But it was nearly six o’clock and unlikely he would come now.

‘What is for dinner, then, Mrs Keene?’ Emma asked, her mouth watering in anticipation of some tempting mutton later.

‘Er…it’s hashed pork, my dearie. With a little herb and stock ‘n so on.’

‘Is it cured pork, Mrs Keene?’ Emma asked on a sigh.

‘I believe it is at that, Miss Worthington,’ Mrs Keene admitted with a jovial smile. ‘Now, I’ve got some good news. An’ I expect, ‘cos it is such a piece o’ luck for you that a busy soul like meself’s managed to put herself out on account of a nice young lady, that you’ll be insistin’ on showing me a small consideration for me pains. Now, not that it’s none o’ my concern, o’ course, but I know for a fact you’ve been scourin’ that Gazette for a position as would suit. Well, now—’ chubby hands were planted on fat hips ‘—what did I hear today from a friend wot’s been speakin’ to a lady’s maid?’ She inclined forward from the waist and beady eyes rolled between fleshy folds.

After a silent moment when Emma realised either she guessed, enquired, or never learned, she obligingly said, ‘I’ve no idea, Mrs Keene. What did you hear?’

With a flourish, a scrap of paper materialised from a greasy pocket. ‘My dear young lady, the good news is that a gentlewoman in Bath is seekin’ a genteel and modest companion. She is a pampered lady and bored…’ Mrs Keene acted the part, shielding a yawn with a fat hand then simpering behind it. ‘Soon as I heard I put meself out to speak to me friend and sing your very praises. She in turn spoke to the maid who had words with her madame. The lady has sent you this little note with her address. Now, what do you say to that good luck and good friends like meself?’

Emma’s small white teeth caught at her full lower lip. What did she say to that, indeed? She had been at Mrs Keene’s lodging house for a few days and had certainly been curiously flicking through the Gazette for local positions.

But it had been a half-hearted investigation: she had little idea where to start, or if indeed she wanted to start at all. She had been gently reared and nothing in that refinement had prepared her for at some time toiling for a living. She balked at the idea of being an assistant to a mantua-maker or a haberdasher and she had seen little else advertised.

Stung by her boarder’s lack of effusive thanks and enthusiasm, Mrs Keene huffed, ‘Well, if it don’t interest, I’ll give this appointment to the new lady as arrived yesterday. She’s fair desperate for a position and workin’ for a foreign madame in quite the best part of Bath will probably seem like heaven dropped in her lap.’

‘It’s very good of you to remember me, Mrs Keene. I am very grateful.’ Emma gave the woman a conciliatory smile as she held out a slender hand for the note. Interview details were written in an elaborate script. ‘I shall attend and if it seems the position will not suit I can try elsewhere…’

‘O’ course…but I reckon it will suit, an’ I reckon you’ll always remember wot good friend managed to winkle it out for you.’ Mrs Keene nodded good-naturedly at the subdued young woman smiling vaguely back at her. Sharp eyes dissected her waif-like appearance: a slender body that looked too delicate to tempt a man but such rich caramel hair and liquid honey eyes set in a complexion that was pure peaches and cream. Not that it was none of her concern, o’ course, but it was puzzling for a body to decide if she was a raving beauty or plain as a pike-staff. Pike-staff, she plumped for; the pretty foreign madame wouldn’t like a rival.

‘Do you know what you’re doing, Emma?’ Matthew demanded shortly.

‘No,’ Emma admitted with a nervous smile as she straightened her bonnet and pulled on her gloves.

Matthew had called earlier that morning and on hearing she had an interview for employment looked startled and then disapproving. But he had offered to convey her in his little trap to South Parade on the opposite side of Bath to where Mrs Keene’s lodging house was situated.

On now alighting at the top of a quiet, elegant crescent, Emma squeezed Matthew’s fingers in thanks and affection. ‘I need a little income while I decide what I must do.’ She slid a glance at his tense profile and again lightly pressed his hand. ‘And seeking employment doesn’t mean that I am rejecting your proposal. Please understand that I need more time…’

With a slightly martyred air he offered, ‘Shall I wait?’

Emma shook her head. ‘I shall hail a ride. I’ve no idea how long I might be—perhaps only a few minutes, if Madame hates me on sight.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps an hour or two if Madame tests my good nature with a protracted wait while she prepares to interrogate me.’

She had been jesting when she’d told Matthew she might be kept waiting. Emma raised her wide golden gaze to the sonorously chiming clock as it marked the half-hour she had been seated in a cool hallway on a hard-backed chair. It was now after three-thirty in the afternoon and she was becoming increasingly disillusioned and restless. She peered about for the dour-faced butler who had allowed her into the house. Madame Dubois was expecting her, he had intoned as he’d shown her to a seat, and had then disappeared with a stiff-legged gait.

Emma abruptly stood up and flexed her shoulders. She took a few tentative steps and peeked along the hall. When all remained still and silent, she meandered, admiring the tasteful decor, to the huge gilt scrolled mirror and studied her appearance. She straightened her bonnet this way and that, then glanced down at her fingertips trailing a glossy satinwood star inlaid into a rich rosewood console table. Swishing around with an impatient sigh, she returned to her chair. She would tarry just another few minutes then depart. A person inconsiderate enough to leave her totally ignored for so long would not make a good employer in any case, she impressed upon herself. She was on the point of reseating herself when a door along the corridor opened.

The figure that emerged was male and tall and very blond and had her gawping idiotically at his handsome profile. She had very recently seen those chiselled bronze features just visible beneath a fall of lengthy sun-bleached hair: it was the foreign count she recalled had been travelling on to Bath from the Fallow Buck posting house.

She quickly sat and folded her hands neatly on her lap, her thoughts racing. Of course! She had never made the connection that the madame in question might be this French nobleman’s wife. The memory of the small blond boy he had lifted in his arms had her frowning at her hands. Would she be expected to nursemaid children? She had no experience of young people…but she could no doubt tutor, if need be…

Firm footsteps echoing against polished mahogany had her attention with the man approaching although her eyes stayed with her entwined fingers. His pace slowed and she knew he’d noticed her.

She glanced up demurely, politely, from beneath the shielding brim of her bonnet. Her face swayed back at once and she felt as though ice had frozen her solid to the chair. Her ivory lids drooped slowly in horrified, disbelieving recognition. French count! Her fingers spasmed as she sensed a hysterical laugh bubbling. No wonder he had seemed familiar! No wonder she had thought she knew him! She did!

But he had changed. It wasn’t surprising she had not immediately been able to place him. His hair was no longer fair and stylishly short but long and white-blond, his complexion no longer city-pale but a deep golden-bronze.

An ostler at a rustic tavern had described him as Quality with a queer name…well, it had been perfectly correct. It was her whimsical romantic imagination that had concluded he must be a French nobleman instead of an English one.

On a misty September morning four days ago she had sensed meeting him somewhere before and fancied it to be in fiction rather than fact. Oh, how she wished that were so! For she had indeed seen him before. And on each occasion she had made it her business to insult him. Now she found herself sitting meekly in his house, hoping to be taken on. The sheer farce of it had the back of a hand pressing to her mouth to stifle a horrified choke.

She was aware of impeccably styled black hessian boots drawing into her line of vision. Please don’t let him recognise me, she silently prayed, casually swivelling sideways on her seat, away from him.

He changed direction, veering off to the console table she had recently admired. From beneath the brim of her bonnet she watched long buff-coloured legs turn, the toes of his boots point towards her again and knew he was studying her.