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‘Secrets?’
‘My sources say you arrived in England not from the country, but from Jamaica?’
She laughed, congratulating herself on the inconsequential and tinkling sound. ‘And they would be right. I came back to England after sorting out my father’s possessions when he died, and setting his affairs into order.’
‘Your father was a scholar?’
A scholar? Oh God, what was he referring to now? And just who were his sources? She was pleased when Lord Henshaw caught her attention.
‘Lady Emma. Are you feeling better?’
‘Yes. Very much better, thank you.’ Such a polite society, Emerald thought, as she gave him her answer. Such a lot unsaid beneath every question. She pulled her fingers away and laid her hands against the voluminous skirt of her gown.
‘Did you hear of Stephen Eaton’s problem the other night, Asher? He met with footpads by the dockside and has a wicked lump on his head. The local constabulary are out in force to try to find the culprits. Word is that it’s a shocking state of affairs when a gentleman cannot even ride around London without being robbed and beaten.’
‘He is saying he was robbed?’
‘Yes, though I cannot work out for the life of me what he was doing at that time and in that part of London, given he had left my ball only an hour or so earlier. His watch and pistol were taken and a ring he wore upon his hand that was a family heirloom. Diamonds, I think. He plans to spend the next few months abroad to recover from the assault, his mother says. I saw her this morning.’
‘A fine scheme. I hope he takes his time to make a full recuperation. If you see his parents, do acquaint them with my sentiments, and say that I was asking after him.’ Pure steel coated his words.
‘I will do just that. Does your sister know of his mishap?’
‘My sister?’
‘Lucinda. She has danced with him at several parties and I thought perhaps there was a special friendship …’
Jack’s voice tailed off. Emerald was certain that he had just put it all together and also deduced that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss such things. She saw him chance a quick look at Charlotte Withers behind him before he changed the subject entirely.
‘My oldest sister was hoping to visit Annabelle Graveson next month, Asher. How is she keeping.’
‘Very well.’ His tone was amused as he finished off his drink. ‘You will meet the Gravesons this weekend at Falder, Lady Emma.’
‘Are they relatives, your Grace?’
‘No. Annabelle Graveson was married to my father’s friend. When he died, he asked me to watch over the affairs of his wife and son.’
Jack Henshaw joined in the conversation. ‘The old Duke was a philanthropist and Asher has inherited his own bevy of needy folk.’
Asher said nothing, but Emerald could tell that he was not happy at his friend’s summation of duty. Interesting, she thought, for a man who professed to caring for little as he held the world at bay.
Looking around, she noticed an attractive dark-haired woman whose eyes were fastened on the Duke of Carisbrook, but if he felt her regard he gave no indication of it as he leant towards her as if to shelter his words from the others around them.
‘Eaton is using the ploy of a robbery to ease his guilt, I would suspect. Though there is another explanation. How honest is your cousin?’
‘As honest as I am, for the ten commandments were the bread and butter of our childhood.’ She felt the distinct turn of guilt in her stomach.
‘You never lie?’
‘My father taught us the importance of truth and honesty.’
She forced back conscience and stiffened when he reached for the locket dangling on a long chain about her neck.
‘Is this some family crest?’
‘My mother’s,’ she replied softly and deposited the golden trinket down again between her breasts, glad when he did not pursue the topic.
‘Who was French?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Pardon.’
‘You said that your mother was from France.’ He was so close she could have reached out a finger to run along the hard cut of his jaw.
‘I did? Yes, of course I did. Because she was.’ Lord, this lying was eating at her composure and she felt sweat in the palms of her hands.
‘Êtes-vous originaire du sud ou bien du nord de la France?’
What was it he had said? Something of north and south. This much she had translated, though the other was lost to her.
‘Oui.’ She chanced one of the ten or so French words she actually knew and was disconcerted by the amusement scrawled on his face.
‘And honesty was as important to your mother as it is to you?’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘Admirable,’ he returned and as his eyes glanced across the loose material of her gown she felt the skin on her nipples pucker and folded her arms. She should have worn her underclothing, but it felt so much better without it.
‘It is seldom one meets a woman of such high moral fibre.’
The blood rushed into her face. ‘I will take that as a compliment, your Grace,’ she said simply.
His laughter brought the conversation around them to a noticeable quietening and as she looked up the hostess, Lady Flora, caught her eye and smiled broadly. Emerald observed that the green-eyed beauty standing next to their host didn’t look anywhere near as friendly as she posed a question.
‘I hear that your newest ship is ready for a launch here in London, your Grace. What is it to be called?’
‘The Melanie.’
An inexplicable tension filled the room.
Who was Melanie, she wondered, and what was she to Asher Wellingham? Someone important, no doubt. Someone he loved?
But where was she now?
The Bishop of Kingseat raised his glass.
‘To the Melanie, then. May she ride the waves long and true and be as beautiful as her namesake.’
There it was again. Her namesake? Interest flared as Asher acknowledged the toast and drank and Emerald was struck by the difference five years had made in the lines of his face.
Hardness and distance.
For some reason the thought made her unfathomably sad and when the topic turned to dancing she was pleased, for it gave her time to compose herself.
Half an hour Emerald stood alone near a pillar that led off to a balcony. Asher Wellingham was across the other side of the room with the beautiful green-eyed woman draped across his arm. From this distance the darkness of her carefully coiffed hair was exactly the same shade as his. The memory of her own hair was sharp and she raised her hand to pat down the short errant curls.
Two ladies behind her were talking about the Duke and she turned so that she could overhear them more easily.
‘If only he would look our way, Claire. Just once. Would it be considered rude, do you think, to raise one’s glass and smile at him?’
The other girl began to laugh. ‘Oh, you would never do that, surely. Imagine what he might think of us.’
‘It is rumoured that he will go to India next month. Let us hope that he does not meet the ghost of the pirate Beau Sandford on his travels.’
A loud squawk of titillation brought the Duke’s glance their way, and Emerald tensed. Hearing the name of her father here disorientated her because it was so very unexpected. Her heartbeat accelerated when she saw the subject of the girl’s conversation start towards her.
‘Lady Emma? Would you walk with me for a moment?’
‘Walk with you?’ Her astonishment was such that she forgot to use her carefully perfected girly voice.
‘There is a balcony just here overlooking a garden. I thought it a good place to talk and I have something for you.’
More of an order than a request. She ignored the arm he held out and hoped that he had not seen the imprinted adulation on the faces of the young women around her. His arrogance was already legendary enough.
The balcony was open at one end and she welcomed the quietness of it. A group of other people stood near the French doors that led in from the main room; pausing by the railing she waited for him to speak.
‘Lucy gave me something to give to you and I had my man return home for the letter when I saw that you were here tonight.’ He dragged a sealed envelope out of his pocket. ‘It is for your cousin, Liam Kingston. A letter of thanks, I should imagine but Lucinda is young and impressionable, so if the correspondence seems exaggerated in places—’ He stopped as she held out her hand and his fingers inadvertently touched her own. She shivered. Even here in the most public of places and with the simplest of contacts she was vulnerable. Hoping that her face did not hold the same expression as the vacuous women inside, she tucked the letter unread into her reticule.
‘If Mr Kingston could find it in him to send a reply and state his circumstances, I would be grateful. Seventeen-year-old girls have a propensity for imagination, you understand, and I would like the matter resolved.’
There it was again. Responsibility and control. Important to a man like Asher Wellingham and something he rarely let go of.
What would happen if he did let go of it? a small voice questioned. As the blood hammered in her temples she turned away to give herself a moment to recover and his next words came through a haze.
‘Would it be possible for you to give me his direction? When I am next in his part of the world I could call in on him and give my thanks.’
Lord!
What address could she tell him? She knew no one in the Americas. A happier thought surfaced. Perhaps Azziz had contacts …
‘I will write it down for you and have it delivered.’
He shook his head. ‘You will be in Falder in two days. I can wait until then.’
The strain of the supper waltz rent the air.
‘How is it that I know you, Lady Emma? Have we met before?’
‘Are you familiar with Cheshire, your Grace?’ She was relieved when he smiled at her question and shook his head.
‘No, but I do not think the memory of you lingers from England somehow …’
Desperate to take his mind from recollection, she locked her hand on his and asked him to dance, completely ignoring the look of astonishment on his face.
His body melded against her own and found the rhythm of the music with much more finesse than she did. Leaning into him for just a moment she closed her eyes.
Wishing.
Wishing that she was a well-born lady and that he might like her just a little. Wishing that things could have been different between them and that all he believed of her was true.
Asher felt her relax against him and pulled her closer. He had not asked anyone to dance with him since Melanie.
In truth, he had not asked Emma Seaton to dance with him either and yet here she was, the warm whisper of her breath tantalising in the folds of his neck. Close. Unexpected. Had she not listened to gossip?
A quick glance at the interest on the faces of others made him wary and he pulled back, the distance between them wider now.
‘You are new to town, Lady Emma. If you want your reputation to stay intact, it might be as well to avoid me as your supper partner.’
‘And why would that be, your Grace? The girls who stood behind me inside would have liked an introduction and they looked innocuous enough.’
He began to laugh. ‘Where were you schooled?’
She was taken aback. ‘In a convent. Why?’
‘Because your vocabulary is … surprising.’ Emerald sensed a new emotion in him that was difficult to interpret. ‘Have you had any offers yet?’
‘Offers?’
‘Of marriage. Isn’t that why you have come to London?’
The blood drained out of her face.
‘You did not know this to be the Season? The time for men to choose from the year’s débutantes.’
‘Men like you?’ she countered and tried to sound indifferent.
‘If you had been listening to the gossip, you would know that the state of holy matrimony is something that I have become adept at avoiding.’
‘Oh. I see.’ The uneasy sensation of being played for a fool suddenly overcame her. ‘Then you will be pleased to know that I am not on the look out for a husband either, your Grace.’
‘Really.’ His brows raised. ‘What are you here for then, Lady Emma?’
Two things hit Emerald simultaneously. The lazy devastation of his smile and the husky timbre of his voice. Her spine tingled with an odd and lonely pain as she remembered a younger Asher Wellingham standing on the transom of his ship, eyes blazing under the emotion of a high-seas’ battle and releasing her from the sharp tip of his sword only when he determined her not to be the lad he thought she was, but a girl. And now here in the ballroom of a beautiful English house she understood what she had only half-known then.
The Duke of Carisbrook was an honourable man and one who respected the codes of England’s aristocracy. Gentlemen did not hurt women. Even ones who could wield a weapon with as much finesse as any man aboard the Mariposa.
‘I am here to see to the welfare of my aunt. She is old and lonely and I am the very last of her family.’
‘And very deaf?’
