An Infamous Proposal (18 page)

“We could be married in London.”

“Ah, a special license, I expect?”

“Just so. I have friends in the clergy. It can easily be arranged.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t arranged it already.” She glanced around the room in a disapproving way. “But then all your arrangements are shabby, to say the least. I’m disappointed in you, James. I had thought you would carry the thing off in better style.”

“It wasn’t easy, with Hansard guarding you like a hawk.”

“Surely I merit a headache powder at least.” She massaged her temples. “My head is splitting with all this fracas.”

“Eddie will have one. You can take it with your wine,” he suggested.

“Yes.”

While James went to the door to call Eddie, she exchanged her glass for his. James locked the door behind him and was back in a trice; he emptied the headache powder into her glass, smiling all the while. He whirled it around until the powder began to dissolve.

“There you go, my pet,” he said. “Drink it up. You’ll feel better in no time.” He took up the other glass.

She lifted her glass to his and clinked them together. “To our happy future,” she said, and drank. James also drank.

He couldn’t conceal his triumph. His voice had a gloating quality when he said, “I must say, you’re rather jolly under the circumstances, Emma.”

“I like a man with initiative. You haven’t finished describing the alternative to Gretna Green, James. What did you have in mind?”

“You haven’t finished your headache powder, Emma. Best drink it up and let the powder do its job.” She lifted her glass and took a long sip. James did likewise.

“Well?” she asked. “Where is the wedding to occur?”

“I thought a small, private do at Papa’s house tomorrow morning,” he said.

“But where do we spend tonight?”

“At Papa’s house.”

“Without being married!” She thought she had better begin yawning and covered her lips in a simulated yawn, while peering to see if James was showing any signs of sleepiness. He yawned, too, and shook his head.

“If I’d thought for a moment you would be so agreeable, I would have had the license ready and got married today. But I shan’t molest you tonight, Emma. That is a promise.”

“Are there any servants at your Papa’s house?”

“The housekeeper and one—” He shook his head in confusion. Then he peered sleepily at Emma. “What did you—”

She picked up her glass and finished her wine. “My headache is feeling much better,” she said brightly, as James crumpled to a heap on the sofa.

Emma shook her head, then went to lock the door in case Eddie came to investigate. It was another fifteen minutes before the front door of the shop began trembling from Hansard’s assault. Eddie came to the parlor door and called in, “There’s people at the front door, Lord James. What should I do?”

“Let them in, Eddie,” Emma said.

“Is Lord James all right?”

“He’s fine. He says to let them in.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Do as I say! Lord James is indisposed.”

There was no further sound from Eddie. He knew something had gone amiss and darted out the back door, to disappear into the teeming streets of London. Emma waited a moment to make sure Eddie had left before opening the parlor door. Even as she did it, she heard the front door burst open and Hansard’s loud voice calling, “Emma! James!”

Before she could answer, he was there, with his face pinched in anxiety and his eyes burning fiercely. “Emma!” he cried, and crushed her in his arms.

The absurdity of it was too much. Emma was overcome with an undignified fit of giggles, which she tried manfully to suppress. Men! James and his idiotic scheme to seduce her, Hansard rushing to rescue her from her comatose pursuer.

Hansard’s lips were at her ear. His voice was tense with anxiety. “My dear, are you all right?”

The effort of choking back the laughter brought tears to her eyes. Hansard lifted his head and gazed down at her. Emma saw such concern and love in his eyes that she felt humbled. He did love her, even if he didn’t know it yet. A man didn’t feel that desperate anxiety for a mere friend. She melted against the warm, hard wall of his chest, as his arms held her safe in an iron grip.

Her choking laughter turned to a whimper in her throat as she met his gaze. For a long moment they looked at each other as if hypnotized. Emma’s lips trembled open, just as his head lowered. She waited for his kiss, but he merely brushed his lips gently against her cheek.

“This is all my fault,” he said, in a shaken voice. “If he’s touched you, I’ll kill the bastard.” He released her and turned to look about the room. He saw James sprawled out on the sofa with the red paint smeared over his left eye.

“Is he—Did you have to—”

“That’s stage paint on his forehead. He’s not dead, Nick. He’s drugged,” she said, half sorry to have to tell him. She felt that if Nick could have been her rescuer, he might have realized he loved her.

“What happened?” he asked, reaching for the wine decanter.

“Don’t drink that!” she cried. “It’s drugged.”

She briefly outlined what had happened. Nick listened, nodding and asking a few questions. When her story was told, he felt rather foolish, running to rescue a lady who had already rescued herself. Emma saw his mood change and tried in vain to recapture that first flame that had flared between them.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come,” she said.

“I expect you would have hired a hansom cab and brought him home. I’ll have John Groom help me carry him out.”

“Why don’t you take him to his papa’s house? There are a few servants there.”

“No, I’ll send word to Revson to come and carry him back to Revson Hall. It’s not safe to let the wretch run loose.”

James was stashed on one banquette of Hansard’s carriage; Nick and Emma sat on the other.

“Did Miss Foxworth get home?” Emma asked, trying for an unemotional subject.

“She arrived as I was leaving. She said she was locked out of the costume shop and didn’t like to loiter about the streets alone. She found a cab to bring her, fortunately.”

At Berkeley Square James was carried in by the servants and taken up to his bedroom. Hansard beckoned Emma into his study.

“Before I write to Revson,” he said, “I must know exactly what indignities you suffered at his son’s hands.”

“He didn’t touch me. He simply planned to marry me. And I shouldn’t expect too much from Revson. James tells me that his papa wouldn’t care how he arranged the thing, so long as he married an heiress.”

Nick shook his head. “Quite a family I planned to marry you into,” he said. “That’s an apology, Emma. Word of this is bound to get about. No doubt the young jackass has been boasting of this stunt to his friends. It might be as well if we leave London soon.”

“Oh, yes! I am feeling so guilty about fooling Papa. I’m on tenterhooks to get back to Whitehern.”

“Might as well try to enjoy the party tonight, however,” he said, rather grimly. “If Sanichton comes up to scratch—” He stopped and looked at her questioningly. “I expect James’s caper has made you more determined than ever to accept Sanichton?”

Emma directed a long, searching gaze at him. She read the hope and doubt and something else that might be love in his eyes.

“Would you be awfully angry with me if I didn’t, after all your troubles in finding me a husband?” she asked, and smiled inwardly as his face softened with pleasure. “I fear I might find him dull after our recent adventures.”

“That is entirely up to you,” he said, nodding his acceptance.

“Is it, Nick?” she asked. “I still need a husband.” Then before he could answer, she turned and ran upstairs, smiling.

Chapter Nineteen

Emma’s Juliet costume had been left behind after the escapade at the costume shop. She had to wear the Aphrodite gown with the too tight girdle and the shawl. It seemed vain to go as the goddess of love and beauty, so she decided to leave off the diadem of stars and say she was one of the Graces. This conformed with Miss Foxworth’s and Lady Gertrude’s outfits. They were going as ladies from classical antiquity as well and were draped in comfortable sheets of colored muslin with crowns of vine leaves, one carrying a small amphora, the other a laurel branch.

They all wore their costumes to the family dinner. Emma had hoped James’s disgrace might be kept quiet, but it was all Lady Gertrude spoke of while they ate.

“So James has lost another heiress.” She glanced sadly at Emma. “I tremble to think what his papa will say when he hears the tale. He vowed not to bail James out of trouble again. I wager he will be packed off to India. He’ll come home when he’s old with a yellow, ravaged face.” She looked hopefully to Emma, to see if this softened her up to accept the lad.

“I pity India,” Nick grumbled, and jabbed at his beefsteak.

Miss Foxworth lamented again that Derek was not here to enjoy the masquerade. “How he loves a masquerade. I wager he would come as a jockey if he were here, though he’s much too big, of course.”

Nick remained behind alone after the meal, musing over the situation as he sipped his port. He had originally thought Emma too lowborn to bring into his family. The thought facing him now was that his family was too outrageous for her to accept.

And on top of it all, it had been his own idea to bring James to Waterdown. If James had succeeded with his harebrained scheme ... He felt a mounting anxiety that something would happen to Emma. A sleeping draft didn’t last forever. He’d have to warn Emma and the servants to be alert this evening. He set aside his glass and went to join the ladies. His eyes flew to Emma. Only when he saw her safely wedged between the two older ladies did he draw a level breath.

Before long the group went to the hall to begin welcoming the guests. Nick and his aunt Gertrude greeted them and passed them along to Emma and Miss Foxworth, who led them to the ballroom. He had arranged only a small party of thirty couples, but they came in an amazing variety of costumes.

Two of the first to arrive were Sanichton and his sister. Lady Margaret was dressed as a shepherdess in a panniered skirt that showed six inches of muslin underleggings and flat slippers with big gilt buckles. She wore a leghorn bonnet with streaming blue ribbons and carried a gilded shepherd’s staff. It was an unfortunate choice of outfit for a tall, rather severe lady. She looked like a mama dressed up in her daughter’s clothes.

But her costume was nothing to compare with her brother’s for ludicrousness. To show Emma his light side, Sanichton had taken the unfortunate notion to come rigged out as a court jester in cap and bells. A close-fitting top and tights in parti-color, harlequin hues completed his ensemble. A Lord James might have carried off the ridiculous outfit, but a dignified Lord Sanichton didn’t know what to do with it. He blushed, ill at ease and feeling every bit as foolish as he looked.

“You are in fetching form, Emma,” he said. “Came as a—a lady, I see,” he said, puzzling over the outfit.

“Yes, I am in disguise from my true nature,” she joked.

Sanichton even realized it was a joke, but no witty retort came to mind. “Oh, but I meant a foreign lady of some sort,” he said. Then quickly changed the subject. “Ah, Hansard, I mistook you for a mail-coach driver. Heh heh.”

“Then my disguise has succeeded,” Nick said, feeling sorry for him.

“And Maggie has come as a shepherdess,” Sanichton said.

“Charming,” Nick lied, giving Lady Margaret’s hand a shake.

The guests continued streaming in. It seemed that Nick’s guests were quite tired of their silks and satins and diamonds. Fine lords came as lamplighters and Smithfield drovers, one even dressing as a fireman. Another wore a white tail wig and the red jacket and blue waistcoat of a Chelsea pensioner. Miss Allyson came decked out as a shrimper in a muslin cap, short-sleeved shirt, and old tattered skirt. Lady Angela Strathmore was disguised as a seller of hot cross buns, carrying a basket of her wares. Her husband was outfitted as a baker in a white apron and leggings, with flour powdering his hair and face.

Those who were not tired of finery came decked out in grander habiliments. There was a royal herald, a judge, a general, and two admirals. They had all come to enjoy themselves, and before long the dancing was in full swing. Masks, baskets, staffs, and other cumbersome paraphernalia were set aside to allow greater freedom of movement. Through it all Emma kept one eye on the door to see if James appeared, and another on Nick, hoping to see him coming toward her. He, too, was concerned about James and could pay her little attention, except to look often in her direction to see she was safe in the ballroom.

Nick’s fears were not in vain. Around eleven o’clock James appeared at the doorway. When he had realized the stunt Emma had played on him, he sank in shame. He had decided to show his remorse—and hopefully secure her silence—by literally donning sackcloth and ashes and apologizing. That should satisfy Hansard, and save him from his papa’s retribution. Lord Revson was not quite so lenient in his views on winning a bride as James had indicated.

The cotillion was just ending when Emma happened to glance at Nick. She saw him stiffen and hasten toward the door. A glance showed her why. She excused herself to her partner and ran after him, arriving as Nick was dragging James down the hall to his study. Emma managed to slip in before Nick kicked the door shut and turned in wrath on his cousin.

“You have the gall to show your nose after that stunt you tried this afternoon!” he exclaimed. “And rigged out like a scarecrow.”

James hung his head humbly. “I come in peace, Cousin,” he said. “Do you not recognize sackcloth and ashes when you see them? Your cook was kind enough to lend me her potato bag and the cinder box from the stove. I am performing public penance for my wrongs.”

Nick was speechless. James spoke on, turning his ash-covered face to Emma. “I apologize most humbly, Lady Capehart, and give you my solemn promise that I shall pester you no more. I adore the ground you walk on, but I could never marry a lady who is more clever than I. I sense you are the sort who would search out all her lord’s picayune secrets, who would rifle pockets and go calling on her husband’s light-skirts.”