Authors: Amanda Quick
Scandal (32 page)
An hour and a half went by before she chanced to glance at the clock. She gave a start when she saw the time.
"I do hope you will forgive me," she said to her hostess as she sprang to her feet and gathered up her reticule. "I must be off. Thank you so much for inviting me."
"We shall look forward to having you attend our little group next week," Lady Turnbull said, with a quick, assessing glance at the fascinated expressions on the gentlemen's faces. "Perhaps you can give us more information on investments and such."
"Yes, do come back next week," one of the gentlemen urged.
"I would very much appreciate hearing your opinions on the corn harvest this summer," another said.
"Thank you," Emily said, edging quickly toward the door. Mentally she made a note to be otherwise engaged next week, if possible. "If you will excuse me…"
"I shall see you out to your carriage," Ashbrook said with grave gallantry.
Emily looked at him in surprise. "Oh. Thank you."
Outside on the steps she waited in tense silence for him to ask if she had brought along her manuscript. She could not bear to thrust it upon him unless he requested it.
"I am glad you came today," Ashbrook said softly as Blade's black and gold carriage approached. "I hoped you would. Now I find I cannot wait until we meet again. Will you be attending the Olmstead affair tomorrow night?"
"I believe so, yes." Emily clutched the reticule and wondered if she should casually mention the manuscript. Perhaps something charmingly offhand about Whittenstall,
Ashbrook's publisher, would do the trick. She frantically searched her brain for something suitable.
"Did you find time to work on your epic poem?" Ashbrook asked as he watched the carriage pull up in front of the steps.
Emily breathed a sigh of relief. He had not forgotten, after all. "Yes, yes, I did. I just happen to have it with me."
"Do you?" Ashbrook smiled deliberately. "Shall I have a look at it, then, to see if it might be suitable for publication?"
"Oh, Richard, that is so kind of you. I was afraid you had forgotten and I did not want to impose." Emily yanked open the reticule and hauled out the precious manuscript. "I have definitely decided to add a ghost," she said as she handed it to him with trembling fingers. "You might bear that in mind as you read."
"Certainly." Ashbrook took the manuscript and smiled suavely. "In the meantime, will you promise to save a dance for me tomorrow night?"
"Yes, of course," Emily said happily as Harry handed her up into the coach. "Thank you, Richard. And please, I beg you, be perfectly honest in your opinions of my work."
The door of the carriage slammed shut and Emily was whisked off before Ashbrook could reply.
A few minutes later the carriage came to a halt in front of the Blade townhouse. Emily alighted eagerly and headed immediately upstairs to her bedchamber.
She was going past the closed door of the old, unused nursery when a loud thump, followed by a distinct groan, brought her to an immediate halt.
"What on earth?" Opening the door and peering inside, Emily was startled to see Simon and the twins stripped to the waist. Charles was just picking himself up off the carpet. Simon was standing over him, feet braced, and Devlin was watching with an expression of deep concentration.
"You do not punch with your fist," Simon said sternly. "You let the man come straight at you and then you turn slightly to the right. He will instinctively follow you and in doing so, put himself off balance. Balance is everything. Do you understand?"
"I believe so." Charles rubbed his bare shoulder. "Let me try it again."
"What is going on here?" Emily asked, fascinated.
The three men swung around to face her, their faces reflecting a united sense of masculine outrage.
"Emily!" Charles yelped.
With horrified expressions, the twins leapt for their shirts, which were hanging on nearby chairs.
"Damnation, Emily," Simon said furiously. "This is no place for a female. Take yourself off at once. And close the door behind you."
"Are you practicing some odd form of boxing, Simon? Is it something you learned in the East? I would love to observe. Perhaps I could even take a few lessons." Emily looked at him hopefully.
"You will leave this room immediately, madam. And you will close the door behind you," Simon thundered.
Emily cast a quick glance at her brothers' scowling faces and found them equally implacable. "Oh, very well. But I must say, you three are certainly a bunch of extremely poor-spirited killjoys."
Emily retreated back into the hall and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 17
"Do tell me what you were doing in the nursery with Charles and Devlin, my lord," Emily said from the other end of the dinner table that evening. "I am most curious."
"Curiosity is not an admirable trait in a female." Simon surveyed the exotically spiced East Indian curry George had just placed in front of him.
Emily gave him a mischievous grin. "You could hardly expect me to ignore all those loud thumping noises as I went past the nursery door."
Simon was aware Emily was deliberately teasing him. He was equally aware that Greaves and George were listening to every word as they stood watch over the dinner table. "In future, my dear, you will kindly knock before you enter a room in which you hear thumping sounds."
"Yes, of course," Emily said with an acquiescent nod. "I mean, one never knows what one will encounter when one opens a door after hearing a thumping sort of noise, does one? It might be anything. One might even chance upon three men who are not wearing their shirts or something equally outrageous."
"That is quite enough conversation on the subject, madam wife." He shot Emily a severe glare.
The response was an irrepressible giggle. "I refuse to end this discussion until I know what you were doing. Were you practicing a fighting technique of some sort?"
Simon gave up. "Yes, we were. I am not certain how it came about but somehow your brothers managed to talk me into demonstrating it for them. It is something I learned during my years in the East."
"Would you teach me?"
Simon was truly shocked by the suggestion. Emily's charming eccentricities could be amusing at times but there were definitely occasions when she went too far. "Most certainly not. It is not a proper activity for a female and it is definitely not the sort of thing a man teaches his wife."
"Hmm. I am not so certain it would be a bad notion to teach me," Emily mused, unintimidated. "After all, the streets of London are not particularly safe, to say nothing of places like
"That is quite enough, madam."
George, the footman who was serving that evening, was suddenly overcome with a fit of loud, sputtering coughing. He rushed from the room. Outside in the hall the coughing turned into a roar of laughter. Greaves, the butler, looked extremely pained.
Simon glowered at Emily. "The dangers of the streets are one of the reasons why you are never to go about unaccompanied in town, my dear. And speaking of going about, my aunt tells me she has received a voucher for Almacks for you."
"She mentioned it," Emily said vaguely as she helped herself to chutney. "But, truthfully, Simon, I have no particular interest in going to Almacks. Celeste says the assemblies are dreadfully boring. One only goes if one is obliged to look for a husband and I have no need to do that, have I?"
"No, but an appearance at Almacks will do no harm," Simon told her firmly. It would be another jewel in the crown of Emily's recent social success. "I believe you should attend next Wednesday night"
"I would rather not. Simon, your chef serves the most remarkable meals. Did you find him in the East?"
"Smoke has been with me for several years, yes."
"Why is he called Smoke? Because he burns the food?"
"No, because he was the bastard son of an island woman and a British seaman. No one wanted him after he was born and he survived by learning to move and act like smoke. Always there, but rarely noticed." A particularly useful talent when one made one's living lifting men's purses in dirty port towns, Simon reflected silently.
"How did you come to meet him?"
"I believe he was attempting to rob me at the time," Simon murmured.
Emily laughed in delight. "What made you decide to give him a position as your cook?"
"He is more than happy to prepare the sort of food I came to enjoy in the East. With him in the kitchen I am not obliged to eat the usual English fare of tough mutton, greasy sausages, and heavy puddings."
"I have noticed we eat a great many dishes with noodles and rice in them," Emily observed. "I must say, I enjoy them. The wonderful spices are very stimulating to the sensibilities."
Simon gave her an impatient glance, well aware she was attempting to change the topic. "You will go to Almacks, my dear," he said softly and deliberately.
"Will I?" She looked delightfully unconcerned about the whole thing. "I shall talk to Lady Merryweather about it. She is a fount of wisdom on how to carry on in Society, is she not? Simon, I am thinking of starting my own literary salon. I attended one this afternoon and, I must say, I was quite disappointed. We hardly touched upon literary matters at all. Everyone wanted to talk about investments."
That comment succeeded in diverting Simon's attention at once. "Did they, indeed?" He took another bite of the curry and watched his wife's face carefully. "Who attended the salon?"
"It was held in Lady Turnbull's house," Emily said airily. "There were several people there. I have forgotten some of the names, I confess." She frowned intently. "There was a gentleman named Crofton, however. I do remember him because I did not particularly care for him."
If Crofton was there, Ashbrook would not have been far behind, Simon reflected grimly. He decided to probe gently for more information. "I believe I made Crofton's acquaintance once on the street in front of his club. I was not impressed by him, either. Do you recall anyone else in attendance at Lady Turnbull's salon?"
"Well…" Emily shot him a cautious glance. "One or two others, perhaps. As I said, I did not get all the names."
So Ashbrook had, indeed, attended and for some reason Emily was trying to conceal the information. Simon went cold with sudden anger, sending Greaves from the room with a single look. He waited until he was alone with his wife, who was munching enthusiastically on a bite of curry and chutney.
"I would like to know everything that happened at Lady Turnbull's salon today, Emily."
"The thing is, my lord," Emily said earnestly, "I would rather not tell you until I know for certain if things are going to work out."
Simon stared at her in baffled fury. Bloody hell. Was she planning to run off with Ashbrook a second time? He could not credit the notion but at the same time the jealousy was already starting to gnaw at his insides. "What, precisely, do you intend to work out, madam?"
"Tis a secret, my lord."
"I wish to know."
"If I tell you, it will no longer be a secret, my lord," Emily pointed out reasonably.
"You are a married woman now, Emily. You do not keep secrets from your husband."
"The thing is, this would be terribly embarrassing for me if matters did not conclude happily."
Simon, who had picked up his wineglass, set it down again before he accidentally shattered it between clenched fingers. "You will tell me what this is all about. I am afraid I must insist upon knowing, madam."
Emily heaved a small sigh and darted him a searching glance. "Will you give me your word of honor not to tell a single soul?"
"I certainly do not intend to gossip about my own wife."
Emily relaxed slightly. Her eyes glowed and she was suddenly bubbling over with an excitement that she had apparently been hugging to herself all afternoon.
"No, I do not suppose you would. Well, my lord, the secret is that Ashbrook has promised to read my epic poem and tell me whether it is good enough to be shown to his publisher, Whittenstall. I am so anxious and excited, I can hardly bear it."
Simon felt the cold tension in his gut unknot at the expectant look in Emily's eyes. Of course she was not planning on running off with Ashbrook. He must have been mad to even consider the notion. He knew her better than that. Emily was helplessly in love with her dragon of a husband.
His reaction to the unlikely threat was, however, a clear indication of how powerfully she affected his self-control. Simon scowled.
But now he had another problem on his hands. Emily might not be planning to get herself seduced by the poet, but there was absolutely no doubt in Simon's mind that Ashbrook's goals were not innocent. Emily was fast becoming all the rage and Ashbrook considered himself extremely fashionable. Forming a liaison with the charming, eccentric wife of the Earl of Blade would no doubt strike the poet as an interesting challenge. He was probably wondering just what he had missed out on five years ago when Emily had used a chamber pot on his skull.
Ashbrook, you bastard. You guessed immediately that the one sure way to get Emily's attention was to show an interest in her writing. Simon decided he would definitely have to attend to the poet but in the meantime he did not have to worry that Emily was going to leave.
Even as he told himself not to be alarmed, Simon was obliged to realize just how important Emily had become to him. He was grappling with that uncomfortable notion when Emily spoke again.
"Well, Simon? Is it not the most marvelous opportunity for me?"
His mouth twisted laconically at the hopeful excitement in her lovely eyes. "It is certainly a most interesting development, my dear."
Emily nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, it is, and now you can see why I did not want anyone to know until Richard has given me his opinion. It would be too humiliating if he decides The Mysterious Lady is not suitable for publication. I have discovered that the ton dotes on humiliating gossip."
"You are quite right to keep the matter a secret," Simon murmured. "And I think it would be a very good notion to establish your own literary salon rather than attend Lady Turnbull's. She is not known for her genuine appreciation of literature, I fear. Her salons are simply excuses for a certain crowd to gather and share the latest gossip. And, as you have noted, here in town the gossip can be quite cruel."
"Yes, that was what I concluded." Emily went back to work on her curry. "I shall establish my salon as soon as possible. I believe I shall invite Celeste and her mother and Lady Merryweather, of course. And there are two or three other ladies I have met recently who are quite interested in the latest style of literature. I hope they will attend."
"You must give me a list of the names of those you plan to invite," Simon said.
Emily looked up quickly, a wary expression in her eyes. "No, my lord, I am not going to do that."
He blinked at the unexpected defiance. "May I ask why not?"
She pointed her fork at him in an accusing fashion. "Because I have finally discovered from your aunt how you go about managing things, my lord. You are apparently in the habit of intimidating people into doing what you want them to do. To be perfectly honest, I would not put it past you to coerce everyone on my guest list into attending my salon."
Simon was at first startled and then reluctantly amused.
"Very well, Emily. Invite whom you wish and I will stay out of the matter entirely."
She gave him a suspicious look. "I am quite determined on this point, my lord."
"Yes, I can see that. Do not fret, Emily. I will not frighten your guests."
"Excellent." She smiled approvingly, her brow clearing as if by magic. "Then I shall get started on the project at once."
"Do not forget you still have to make preparations for your soiree."
Emily's expression immediately turned anxious. "I am working very hard on it, my lord. I vow I am doing everything I can to make certain it is a success. Although I still do not know how we will get everyone inside the house."
Simon eventually tracked Ashbrook down at one of the St. James clubs. The poet was ensconced in a chair near the fire with a bottle of port, apparently taking a breather from the card tables.
"Well, Ashbrook, what a convenient circumstance." Simon sat down in the chair across from the poet and picked up the bottle of port. He poured himself a glass of the dark red wine. "I have been looking for you for the past hour or so. Where is your friend, Crofton?"
"I am meeting him later." Ashbrook flicked open his snuffbox with a one-handed, negligently elegant gesture he had no doubt practiced for hours. "We are planning an entertaining tour of some of the more intriguing brothels."
"Just as well he is not here." Simon sampled the port. It was somewhat too sweet for his taste. "I wanted to talk to you alone."
Ashbrook's fingers tightened around his glass. "I do not see why. I have abided by our little agreement. I have not breathed a word about the scandal in Emily's past."
Simon smiled dangerously. "I have no idea what you are talking about. There is no scandal in my wife's past. Are you implying there might have been one?"
"Good God, no, I am not implying anything of the kind." Ashbrook gulped his port. "What the devil do you want from me, Blade?"
"You have, I believe, something that belongs to my wife. I would like it sent back immediately."
Astonishment lit Ashbrook's gaze for an instant, quickly replaced by an indolent stare. "We are discussing her epic poem, I collect?"
