The Butler Did It (20 page)

 

E
MMA WAS CERTAIN
her cheeks were going to wither and fall off if she had to smile one more time, her toes were going to run away in protest if they were stepped on by another dancing partner, and her stomach had declared that the meager refreshments served at Almack's were first swept up from the street before they were put on plates and offered to the unwary.

She stifled a yawn and wondered at the hour as she sat beside her mama, inspecting her dance card. It must have gone midnight an hour ago. Only two sets left, and she could go home, let down her hair—one of the pins Claramae had stuck in her coiffure was digging into her skull. She could take off this gown, kick off her dancing
slippers and collapse into her bed, not rising until Friday, at the earliest.

“Who will be partnering you in the next set?” her mama asked her, peering at Emma's dance card. “You're quite the Sensation of the Evening, my dear. I always knew it, but to see it? Well, I am So Very Happy for you.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Emma said, fully aware that her rather stunning popularity arose from two sources: her grandmother's blackmailing scheme, and word of the supposed dowry bestowed on her by the marquis.

Neither piece of knowledge did much for her wish of coming to town and making a brilliant match. In fact, she was hard-pressed at the moment to remember why she thought being married would solve all her problems, all the problems of her family.

It was as her grandmother had said: never forget for a moment that marriage includes being shackled to a man. And if tonight's assortment of gentlemen was representative of the rest of London's gentlemen, she'd rather remain a spinster until she died, surrounded by her coterie of cats and small pug dogs.

“As a matter of fact, Mama, I have no partner for this dance. I deliberately kept it open, so that Mr. Rolin could ask me, but it would seem he is gone.”

Daphne pursed her lips disapprovingly.

“What's wrong?” Her mama so seldom disapproved of anything.

“Well, dear, it's not for me to say…”

“You're my mama, Mama. If it's not for you to say, who should say?”

Daphne shuddered. “Your grandmother, for one. I can hear her now, my dear. She'd say good, pick him, he's already got one leg dangling over the grave.”

“Oh, Mama, Mr. Rolin isn't that old.”

“Perhaps it's different for gentlemen. Yes, I'm sure it is. He was in Society when I was first Out, you know, not that he remembers me. At his age, I'd have been nearly two score years into my caps if I hadn't married your father. But gentlemen? Ha, they're still out and about, and eligible. That doesn't seem quite fair, but that's neither here or there, Emma. I won't have you bracketed to a man who is nearly as old as your father would be, were he alive, rest his soul.”

“I don't remember Mr. Rolin asking for my hand, Mama, just to take me on a drive tomorrow. Goodness, you and the marquis should put your heads together, you seem to have so much in common.”

“The marquis thinks Mr. Rolin too old, as well?”

“He thinks something,” Emma said, looking across the ballroom to see his lordship walking toward her. He was not alone. A gentleman of about his same height and age was with him. A very handsome blond gentleman, with a faintly wicked smile. “Here he comes now, Mama. Perhaps he wishes for us to leave, as there are only two dances remaining. Please don't say no, because I am more than ready to be shed of this place.”

“You don't like it here? Oh dear. Please don't tell Sally, she'd be that upset. She confided in me that attendance has begun falling off these past two years, and she would not only consider you ungrateful, but as adding to her budget of woes. She fair dotes on being a Patroness, you understand.”

“Sally Jersey fair dotes on being Sally Jersey, Mama,” Emma said, then stood up before dropping into a curtsy. “Your lordship,” she said, raising her gaze to his face…and she nearly gasped.

He had changed. How on earth had he managed that? He seemed younger somehow, his blue eyes clearer, his entire posture more relaxed, less ready to spring. Why, he was actually smiling at her.

“Mrs. Clifford,” Morgan said, inclining his head to her. “Miss Clifford. Please allow me to introduce to you my very good friend, Perry Shepherd, Earl of Brentwood, and a rascal of the first water. Your lordship, Mrs. Samuel Clifford and her daughter, Miss Emma Clifford.”

Then he stood back, to watch. If Miss Clifford was husband-hunting, Perry must appear as if a gift from the gods. Imagine her chagrin when she found out he was here on orders from his uncle.

Daphne had scrambled to her feet and both she and Emma curtsied to the earl. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Emma said as her mother mumbled something indistinguishable.

“The honor, I assure you, Miss Clifford, is entirely mine,” Perry said, bowing over the hand she quickly yet belatedly held out to him, as she was still cudgeling her brain, trying to scare up a reason why his lordship looked so happy, so very nearly
smug.
“I will be forever in the marquis's debt for gifting me with this introduction. Shall we name our second son after him, Miss Clifford, do you think? The first will be Perry, quite naturally, as I am a vain man.”

Emma regained her hand—she'd had to tug at Perry's grip twice, before he released her. An imp of mischief knocked on her brain. She let it in. “I'm convinced his lordship would be very pleased, my lord. Do you think we could marry before the end of the week? The marquis requested that boon of me, most particularly, as the sooner he is shed of his unwanted ward, the better.”

“Emma!” Daphne exclaimed, sinking back into her chair. “Oh My Stars.”

Brentwood turned to the marquis, his quizzing glass somehow already stuck to his eye. “Stap me, Westham, have you misplaced your brains somewhere in the country in the years you've been gone? I would have thought you'd want this beautiful young lady for yourself, and here I find out you are pushing to be rid of her. Very well, if you must be so obtuse, allow me to take Miss Clifford off your hands.”

“I thought we'd decided that before you dragged me over here to introduce you,” Morgan said. But he was still
smiling. “Before posting the banns, however, you might want to acquaint her with your dearest relative?”

“You've a mean streak, my friend. I'd never noticed that until now. Now, excuse us, as we'll be off.” Perry allowed the quizzing glass to drop as he returned his attention to Emma. “For this next dance, Miss Clifford. After that, who knows? I may surprise myself and make my old friend happy.”

“Don't believe him, Miss Clifford,” the marquis said as Brentwood held out his arm. “I just heard it from his own mouth, not an hour ago, that he plans never to marry.”

“Oh, unkind, unkind! And, unfortunately, quite true, although you already knew that, didn't you, Miss Clifford? I am a wastrel, and his lordship here is a fool. Come, instead of fatiguing ourselves in the dance, where we could not hope to converse below a bellow, shall we stroll on the balcony, take the air, and dissect the good marquis?”

“I'd be delighted, my lord,” Emma said, glaring at the marquis over her shoulder as she walked away on the earl's arm. Once out of earshot, she said, “And you can tell me about this relative his lordship is so keen for me to know, as I am already fairly sure I have at least already heard his name. And then, my lord, we can abandon this entire farce, before the marquis becomes so doubled over with mirth that he makes a spectacle of himself.”

 

F
ANNY AND
S
IR
E
DGAR
were just abandoning the drawing room, neither of them walking too straight nor too steadily, when a footman opened the door to the marquis and the ladies Clifford.

“Oops, best take ourselves off, before they see us,” Fanny whispered. Or it would have been a whisper, if she'd had less brandy. In truth, her words came out as more of a shout, and Sir Edgar winced as he grabbed her arm and raced her toward the stairs.

“Mother Clifford? Mother Clifford, wait!” Daphne called up from the foyer, and Fanny stopped to wait for her daughter-in-law to join them on the landing.

“Something's up,” Fanny said to Sir Edgar. “Fool woman completely forgot to simper to Thornley before racing for the stairs.”

Daphne fairly ran up the curving staircase, huffing and puffing as she reached the top. “Oh, I'm So Very Glad you're still awake, Mother Clifford. Hello, Sir Edgar.”

“Madam,” Sir Edgar said, inclining his head to the woman, but not too far, because he felt himself beginning to lose control of his lower limbs. “If you ladies will excuse me?” He grabbed on to the stair rail with both hands and proceeded to pull himself up the stairs.

“Can't hold his spirits,” Fanny said, shaking her head as she looked after her cohort in crime, then grabbed at the newel-post, as the action had sent her head spinning. What a queer feeling, drinking to excess, and such a rare
one—it had been decades since she'd felt so…so
free.
“So, how was your evening, Daphne? Better, how was Emma's evening? Knee-deep in eager suitors, I'll wager.”

“Oh, it was terrible, Mother Clifford. Simply Terrible! The ungrateful girl has taken the marquis In Umbrage.”

Fanny, eyebrows raised, toddled over to the staircase leading down to the foyer, and leaned against the banister. “Still breathing, the both of them. And there they go, straight into his lordship's private study, and without a chaperon. What's the problem? Are we going to have to listen to another threat to throw us out of here on our rumps?”

“I don't know,” Daphne said, wringing her hands. “I just know that they didn't speak two words to each other all the way here in the coach. But their eyes? Oh, Mother Clifford, their eyes were saying the most Terrible Things. Mother Clifford? Where are you going? We Must Talk.”

“I don't think so, Daphne, not unless you wish to converse while I have my head over the chamber pot,” Fanny said, and disappeared up the stairs with more haste than it would be thought someone of her age could muster.

 

“S
HERRY
?” M
ORGAN ASKED
, lifting the decanter and displaying it for Emma, who was already sitting on one
of the pair of burgundy leather chairs placed on either side of the fireplace.

“Thank you, no,” she said, stripping off her gloves with a calm she didn't feel, and laying them in her lap.

“Very well,” Morgan said, eyeing the decanter of wine and then dismissing it to walk over and sit down in the facing chair. “We'll do this dry, as it were.”

Emma saw the grin on his face, the unholy gleam in his eye, and could take it no longer. “You did that deliberately.”

Touching a hand to his chest, Morgan furrowed his brow, doing his best to look confused. “Did what deliberately, Miss Clifford? I've done so very much since arriving in London last evening.”

“Introduced the earl to me, of course, knowing full well he'd been sent to Almack's on orders from his uncle. And he's your friend, which makes it all the worse. The pair of you obviously set out to make a May Game out of me. How the both of you must have been laughing at my expense.”

“You held your own, as I recall,” Morgan said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, attempting to look like the older, more sober one. The more responsible one. Did he look imposing? He hoped he looked imposing. After all, he was a marquis. Not that his title had yet seemed to impress this contrary female. “However droll you were, I feel it my duty to warn you to be careful with what you say, Miss Clifford, or else you'll soon be considered fast.”

“I don't care what I'm considered, my lord,” she said angrily. “I'm already thought to be the offshoot of a blackmailing old biddy by some, and as a target for those of your gender who believe marrying the dowry you're supposedly posting around the
ton
like some sort of reward for taking us all off your hands would be a fine thing. Being thought fast could only be
considered
an improvement.”

“My gender, Miss Clifford? You are looking to marry a deep pocketbook, I do believe,” Morgan said, pointing out the obvious, which must have rankled, for her complexion immediately went an attractive pink. “Tell me, why is it that what is so proper for the goose is so reprehensible for the gander?”

Emma looked at him, her eyes wide. “I…I don't know. It just is, that's all.”

“Ah, the female mind, always a wonderment. And, if I might make a comment, it would appear that my friend the earl, rather than being put off by your grandmother's blackmailing ways, has found you to be quite appealing. You should be honored, Miss Clifford. Perry is known far and wide as never having been smitten by anyone. Save himself, of course.”

If anyone was keeping score, and Emma was, Morgan was winning their verbal battle quite handily. She decided to go on the attack. “His lordship told me about your duel, my lord. How you were the one who scarred his face, and all over some ridiculous argument neither
of you remembers. No wonder you went off to hide your shame in the country. Five years was scarcely sufficient. A drunken duel, my lord? And you dare to cut up stiff at my grandmother? She's only having herself a bit of fun. You could have killed your best friend.”

Morgan opened his mouth to point out that Perry had been as much a part of their “drunken duel” as he, and that Perry's foil had found its mark as well, skewering him square in the—no, he wasn't going to say that. He wouldn't say that if Emma tied him down and poured hot pitch all over him. And he did look like the more guilty party, damn it, because he had retreated to Westham, while Perry had continued to move in London Society.

“I see you have nothing to say to that, my lord,” Emma said, satisfied. “At least you have some sense.”