An Infamous Proposal (4 page)

“That is another possibility. And speaking of ladies’ reputations, I must mention that you are slandering an unexceptionable lady to imply Mrs. Pettigrew is my mistress.”

“Indeed! It is news to me that unexceptionable ladies send their gentlemen callers home at three o’clock in the morning. I saw you riding down the road at that hour the night before you went to London.”

“What were you doing up at three o’clock?”

“Watching you come home from Mrs. Pettigrew’s. And looking at the moon,” she added with a wistful expression. “It was a full moon. The park looked silver and black. It was beautiful.”

Nicholas found himself gazing at Emma. She had a faraway, romantic look in her eyes. He shook himself to attention and said, “As you are interested in what I was doing, I’ll tell you: I was attending the foaling of Bounty’s broodmare. If the foal was a filly, he was to sell her to me. It was a colt.”

“Odd Bounty didn’t mention it.”

“Odder that you should,” he retorted. “There are some things ladies do not discuss with gentlemen, Emma.”

She gave a demure smile. “So you told me, last night.”

“And you have decided to ignore the lesson?”

“I have decided to set my own boundaries, especially when I am with friends. We are still friends, are we not?” she asked archly.

“Thus far.”

“Good,” she said, and picked up her book.

Nicholas took it as a hint that she wished to resume her reading. He glanced at the title and was surprised that it was not a gothic novel, but a tome on Grecian antiquities.

“I didn’t know you were interested in Greece,” he said.

“There is a good deal you don’t know about me, Nick. It occurs to me that in the several years we have been acquainted, we’ve never talked about anything serious—except estate matters, since John’s death, of course. I wonder why that is.”

Nick cocked his head and grinned. “Perhaps it’s because you’re young and pretty.”

“Or perhaps it’s because you’re a gazetted flirt. I don’t know why young gentlemen think ladies’ heads must be gray before their owners are allowed to enjoy sensible conversation. I’ve often discussed Greece with Bounty. He’s quite an expert. Did you know they had slaves?”

Nick felt a sting of annoyance at the recurrence of Bounty’s name. “So I’ve heard.”

“It is shocking that everyone puffs Greece up as such a fine model of society. The ladies were treated abominably.” She slanted a long, enigmatic look at him. “Even worse than we are treated in England.”

“You’re sitting at ease in your own garden, which the law allows you to own outright. You control your own estate, your finances. I cannot think you are too hard done by in England.”

She gazed off into the trees. “Yes, but everyone still treats me as a child. I know Papa will send Aunt Hildegarde sooner or later. I haven’t the freedom of a married lady, yet if I marry, my husband will expect to bearlead me.”

With a thought to Lord James, Nicholas said, “What you ought to do is find a biddable husband. You will satisfy the proprieties and still keep the upper hand at home.”

“That is exactly what I have been thinking myself. But where is this pineapple of perfection, a biddable husband, to be found?”

“You never know, Emma. He may show up sooner than you think.”

“No, I won’t find him here. No point fishing for a trout in a rain barrel. Such gentlemen are only to be found in London.” She said the last word reverently, as if it were sacred.

“I caught an excellent trout in my own river,” he said, smiling.

“I was speaking metaphorically, Nick.”

He took his leave in good spirits. James would not be a severe husband. He was an easygoing fellow, good natured and handsome. Perhaps a little too easygoing for a girl in Emma’s frame of mind? He shook the wisp of doubt away. The situation was too volatile to leave as it was. Most certainly Emma would marry someone very soon, and it was best to make sure that someone was a proper gentleman.

Chapter Five

Emma assumed it was one of those coincidences, whose long arms are so famous, that brought Derek Hunter to Whitehern the next afternoon. Miss Foxworth had been putting her nephew forward as a
parti
ever since John’s death. And now, just when it was possible for Emma to be thinking of marrying, he appeared in the flesh.

In fact, Miss Foxworth had had more to do with it than had coincidence. She regularly dispatched notes to her favorite nephew. In the last she had said that Lady Capehart was now putting off her crape and going into Society again.

Derek Hunter waited only long enough to have his hair trimmed and to lay his watch on the pawnbroker’s shelf to pay for his new jacket before setting off for a visit. The tailor refused to part with the vestment without some payment for past services.

Hunter made an unfashionable and inconvenient arrival mere moments before dinner. As it was only his aunt and Emma who were there, it was no matter. Miss Foxworth was sufficiently recovered from her sniffles to come down to dinner.

Emma was curious to see this Adonis of whom she had heard so much. So far as appearance went, she was not disappointed.

He was tall and well built, with a glistening head of hair so blond it was nearly white. A pair of sapphire blue eyes of startling clarity peeped out from his tanned, healthy face. His jacket, while not the work of Weston—it was by Stutz—showed his shoulders off to perfect advantage.

He was accoutered with all the trinkets of the dandy. A quizzing glass hung on a black, corded ribbon. A gold watch fob, attached to a thick gold chain, dangled from his pocket. The watch that went with it was on the shelf in London, but the fob and chain looked well. His pockets held an assortment of items: snuffbox, dice, cards (both playing and calling), and a spent bullet that had been prized out of his shinbone after he was shot by a highwayman with exceedingly poor aim.

He lifted the quizzing glass when Miss Foxworth presented him to Lady Capehart and studied her for a moment through it, before speaking in a practiced drawl.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “How does it come London hasn’t heard of you, Lady Capehart?”

“I cannot imagine,” she replied, “for I have certainly heard of London.”

“A wit!” he exclaimed. “It is unusual to find beauty and intelligence in one lady.” And wealth into the bargain, he added to himself. He opened his lips to reveal a set of perfect pearls, marred by having the corners filed down to allow him to whistle like a mail-coach driver during a dry spell in which he had thoroughly enjoyed that occupation.

“You make your home in London, I believe, Mr. Hunter?” Emma said.

“I keep a set of rooms there—a pied-à-terre for the Season, you know. One must do the pretty with the debs, or the mamas fly into the boughs, but I spend most of my time in the country.”

“Emma is very eager to spend some time in London, Derek,” Miss Foxworth prompted.

“I should say so! There’s nowhere like it. As old Johnson was saying t’other day, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.”

Emma frowned. She recognized the quotation and knew perfectly well Dr. Johnson had been buried in the last century. But perhaps Mr. Hunter meant some other Johnson who had quoted the doctor. It was a common name after all.

Mr. Hunter continued to outline the delights of London. “Drury Lane, Covent Garden, the balls, routs, ridottos—and Vauxhall, of course! You really must allow me to take you ladies up to London for a few days.”

Emma listened, enthralled. Those were exactly the things she longed to see and do. Now that she was out of mourning, she also had shopping to do to update her wardrobe. And it would be lovely to have an escort for the evening. “What a charming idea!” she exclaimed.

“Pity I didn’t bring my traveling carriage,” he said. “I decided to drive my curricle as the weather was so fine.”

“Emma has a carriage,” Miss Foxworth said.

“I’m sorry I sold my London house, or I could put you up there,” was Mr. Hunter’s next misleading statement. “It was too large for a bachelor. A great barn of a place on Grosvenor Square, next door to Lord Harrington. I took a set of rooms instead.”

These artful speeches made Emma think he was very well to grass. Miss Foxworth had been vague on that point, but his style of life certainly indicated wealth.

“I rather enjoy staying at hotels,” she said. Before long Soames announced dinner.

“And here I sit in my buckskins!” Mr. Hunter exclaimed. “You will think me no better than I should be, Lady Capehart, but I shan’t make you sit down to cold mutton on my account. Just close your eyes, and pretend I am properly outfitted. I ought to have brought my valet with me, but he dislikes the open carriage. I am too soft by half with my servants.” Of course he had no valet.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Hunter,” Emma said. “It is only ourselves. Sir John’s valet is still with us. He will look after you for the nonce.”

“And after dinner we shall have a friendly game of cards to pass the time, eh?” He was assured of picking up enough blunt to treat the ladies to dinner and a play in London.

“We don’t usually play for money, Derek,” his aunt warned him.

“Egad, I’m not talking about gambling! Pennies a point—or perhaps a shilling a point, to make it interesting.” Miss Foxworth gasped. “Not much point shuffling pieces of paper about if there is no sport
of
winning a little something in it,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure a nabob like Lady Capehart has no objection to a shilling a point.”

Every word that left his lips raised him higher in her regard. She didn’t want to look like a Johnnie Raw and agreed that a shilling a point would make the game interesting.

He kept the ladies well amused during dinner, with apocryphal tales of house parties he had attended at sundry noble homes, balls, hunts in which he had led the field, races won, and other dashing doings that showed him to advantage. During the course of his stories, he put himself in Scotland shooting one morning and hunting at Badminton that same afternoon, but as Emma had no idea that Badminton was in the Cotswold hills, she didn’t find it strange.

It was the naive Miss Foxworth who said, “Is Badminton in Scotland, Derek?”

“Did I say Badminton? I meant Badderhurst, old Lord Macintosh’s place, in Scotland.”

“Badderhurst doesn’t sound Scottish,” Miss Foxworth said.

Hunter glared her into silence. “No, it don’t, but it is. By Jove, this is excellent mutton, Lady Capehart.”

Mr. Hunter consumed a hearty dinner, praising every bite that entered his mouth. When it was done, he wafted his hand as if he were the host and told the ladies he would join them in the saloon as soon as he had gargled a glass of port.

“What do you think of him, Emma?” Miss Foxworth asked eagerly.

“He’s very handsome.”

“And so lively. Very amusing, is he not?”

“Vastly amusing.”

“Derek knows everyone. He will show us a good time in London.”

When he joined them a little later, Miss Foxworth said, “Perhaps you could take Emma to a ball, Derek, if any of your friends happen to be having one while we are there.”

“By Jove! Wouldn’t the fine lords stare to see her!” he exclaimed, with a long, approving look at Emma. “Of course you were presented at court, Lady Capehart?”

“No, I wasn’t,” she said apologetically.

“Pity, but Society is fierce in that respect. No presentation, no balls.” He took a pinch of snuff and sneezed daintily into his handkerchief.

“Perhaps a small, private party,” Miss Foxworth suggested.

“Unfortunately, with the Season as close to over as makes no difference, the lords have all run off to their estates, or Brighton.”

“Perhaps we should go to Brighton,” Miss Foxworth said.

Mr. Hunter gave a chiding look. “It is London that Lady Capehart has set her heart on, Auntie. I hope I can show you a good time without noble balls. And now, shall we set up the card table?”

Mr. Hunter managed to relieve his hostess of five pounds, which he deemed enough for the trip. It took him a few hours to do it, for he disliked to risk using shaved cards, and his hostess proved a daunting player.

“Beginner’s luck! I shan’t insult you by not taking the money, Lady Capehart,” he said, scooping up the gold and sliding it into his pocket. “Tomorrow evening when you fleece me, I shall insist that you keep your winnings.”

“I shall hold you to that, sir,” she replied.

It was late, and after Soames brought them a light snack, they retired. The next morning Mr. Hunter expressed his regret that he hadn’t brought his hack with him, for he craved some exercise. Emma immediately offered him the loan of Sir John’s mount. He rode about Emma’s estate, mentally adding up the value of the acres, farms, and herd, and wondering if the sale of the cattle would bring enough cash to buy a couple of thoroughbreds. The chit was a nabob, by gad! As green as grass and as pretty as could stare. Dame Fortune had smiled on him at last.

Lord Hansard was perturbed the next morning when he spotted the dashing young buck from his stable. He made an excuse that afternoon to call on Emma to discover who he was.

He found Emma alone, writing a fictitious report to her papa on the progress of Miss Foxworth’s indisposition. Mr. Hunter had darted into the village
in
his curricle to see what further amusement the place offered to the future master of Whitehern. Miss Foxworth was resting abovestairs, to rally her strength for the trip to London.

Soames called Lady Capehart from the study when Hansard arrived. She found him in the saloon, frowning at the quizzing glass that Derek had left on the table. He lifted the glass and said, “A visitor, Emma?”

“Yes, Miss Foxworth’s nephew is paying us a visit.”

“Hunter?”

“Yes,
Derek Hunter.”

“Long threatening comes at last. John often mentioned Hunter. You won’t want to encourage the likes of him.”

“I didn’t realize you had Mr. Hunter’s acquaintance,” she said coolly.

“I haven’t.”

“Yet you feel qualified to tell me I shouldn’t encourage him. He is vastly handsome and amusing.”

“Your late husband often spoke of him. As John isn’t here to look out for your interests, I shall risk incurring your wrath by saying bluntly, the fellow is on the prowl for an heiress. He is here in an effort to capture your fortune.”