Chapter Seventeen

He would despise her after this, Emily was certain. He would be even more regretful he’d married her than he’d been before. Not only did she have no fortune for him to gamble away, not only did she lack charm, as her mother-in-law said, but she also came from a family whose secrets could shrivel a person’s soul.

She explained to him just how shameful her family really could be, leaving nothing out.

She told about her father bringing the body home, how she’d thought Madeleine had died alone outside in the cold. Tears flooded her eyes, and her voice caught on a sob.

To her surprise, he did not shake his head in disgust. He wrapped his arm around her and held her close against his chest until she was again able to speak.

‘It is all right,’ he murmured in a voice soft as kitten’s fur. ‘Your sister did not die.’

No, but that nagged at her too. Who was the poor girl buried in Madeleine’s grave?

His arms held her close. The heat of his body warmed her, and the chill of the day disappeared. How was she to reconcile this kindness with all she knew of him? With all that had fuelled her anger?

Her mind refused to recall his wager on Lady Widow, refused to remember he’d tricked her into marriage, refused to accuse him of being like her father.

They continued on the park’s path, her holding tightly to his arm. The trees in the park were already bare, their brown leaves scattered on the ground. Every so often the cold breeze stirred them into useless little whirlwinds.

She continued her tale. She told of encountering Madeleine in front of Lackington’s Book Shop, on Devlin’s arm, like seeing a ghost appear during the brightest part of the day.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly so dry she was unable to tell him she once had placed all her hopes on marrying Devlin Steele. This truth was too painful. She had been so eager to marry a good man. A man unlike her father.

Had she accomplished that goal by marrying Guy? Was he the good man he appeared to be at this moment, a man offering her no censure, no rebuff, merely comfort and understanding?

Whatever might happen in the days and weeks and years to come, she would never forget this moment with him. Her husband looked upon her with loving eyes. Her heart nearly burst with the joy of it.

In a halting voice she told him how thoughtless and selfish she’d been, and how jealous of the pretty Madeleine. If she had paid attention to her sister, guided her, looked out for her, Madeleine would have been safe.

‘How could you have known, Emily?’ he said. ‘You could not have conceived of such events.’

Could she bear it? Could she believe it? She wanted to believe it. In this moment, walking with him and telling him the worst secret of her life, she wanted to believe she was not at fault. She wanted to believe he cared about her.

They left the park and walked to Grosvenor Square. She hated the thought of parting with him, but Madeleine would have difficulty enough in hearing the news from her. Besides, the longer he was with her, enfolding her in his kindness, the more foolhardy would the plan forming in her mind seem.

As they neared the Heronvale townhouse, she said, ‘I wish to be alone with Madeleine when I tell her. I do not want you to be present. It will only distress her.’

Guy’s blue eyes regarded her intently. ‘Emily, I beg you not to tell her at all.’

‘No! She must be warned! I insist upon it.’ She could not keep this secret from Madeleine, not when her sister’s whole future could be ruined by it. She would also tell Madeleine she would fix it.

His brow furrowed.

As Guy’s wife she could do nothing for her sister. It would be scandalous for her to call upon Cyprian Sloane, even if she knew where to find him. Lady Widow, however, knew exactly where he would be that very evening. Lady Widow might be able to convince him to preserve Madeleine’s reputation.

Her heart beat wildly with excitement. She knew she could resolve this! Lady Widow could convince Sloane, she knew she could! She could rescue her sister now as she had not done before.

She made her voice firm. ‘Do not forbid me to do this, Guy. I have made no previous requests of you, but I am asking you now to allow me to warn my sister.’

They had reached the door to the Heronvale townhouse. He crossed his arms and bowed his head in thought.

‘I will not forbid you,’ he said at last. ‘But it is a matter best resolved without her knowing of it, I am convinced. It would be far more effective if I spoke with her husband or with Heronvale.’

‘No, Guy, you must not,’ Emily begged. ‘It is Madeleine’s decision whether or not to tell her husband and the Marquess.’

She looked up at him, all turmoil inside. Wishing not to part with him. Not to become Lady Widow again. But excited and eager to rescue her sister.

‘If this is what you desire…’

His eyes were warm and caring, their intense blue still having that melting effect on her bones and muscles. What she desired most was to throw herself into his arms and to feel his strength enfolding her, never letting go.

She must be realistic. She must take one more risk. For the sake of her sister. When she met his eyes, her gaze did not waver, even as the lie formed on her lips. ‘I desire this above all things.’

What she truly desired above all things was for this moment with her husband to last forever.

He smiled at her and butterflies danced in her chest. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. When he turned his back to her to sound the knocker, she rubbed where his lips had touched, her heart now aching with what she had decided to do.

For her sister, she would don Lady Widow’s clothes one last time. She would wear Lady Widow’s mask. She would return one last time to Madame Bisou’s gaming hell and convince Sloane never to divulge this secret—no matter what it took. She would not fail Madeleine this time. She would right the wrong she had done, and her sister would be safe.

 

When a Heronvale footman opened the door, Guy watched Emily step over the threshold, and heard her ask for Lady Devlin. The door closed.

He had not wished to bid her goodbye. He turned away and stepped back on the pavement, remembering how it felt to hold her in his arms, to comfort her, to dry her tears.

The revelation about her family had been shocking in the extreme. He had not imagined how low her parents could sink. To abandon one daughter to such a fate. To treat the other like a mere encumbrance. Using them both as mere chattels to resolve gaming debts. Why, even his own father and brother had not been so lost to decency as that.

How had Emily come out of such a family with all her goodness? Her solicitousness of his mother, his great-aunts and the servants had been no pretence. If her father had passed on his love of gambling to her, Guy would help her conquer it. God knew, he understood all the temptations of a card table.

But first he must see her safe from this scandal. He must save her from the pain of seeing her sister ruined and banished all over again.

Guy turned towards Bond Street in search of a hack. He intended to stop at White’s or whichever gentlemen’s club might know where Cyprian Sloane could be found. He’d find Cyprian Sloane and do whatever was necessary to compel the man to keep his mouth shut. Then he would tackle all their other problems, including telling her he’d deceived her once more by pretending he did not know she was Lady Widow.

 

Guy spent half the afternoon searching before he finally located Sloane in a tavern near his rooms on Thornnaugh Street. Sloane sat alone at a rough-hewn wood table, eating stewed partridge, drinking a tankard of ale, and looking like hell.

His bloodshot eyes only momentarily registered surprise before returning to their typical faintly mocking expression. ‘Well, Keating. I must say, you are the last man I expected to see.’ He added, ‘Or wished to.’

‘May I sit down?’ Guy asked.

Sloane winced. ‘Only if you promise not to shout. I have the devil of a headache.’

Guy signalled for the tavern maid to bring him some ale.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Sloane said with thick sarcasm.

Guy gave him a level stare. ‘You shared some information with me last night. I am ready to discuss it.’

Sloane’s brow wrinkled and he stared into his ale. Half a minute passed before the wrinkles cleared and he looked up again. ‘Now I recall. Regarding Lady—’

Guy held up his hand. ‘Do not say her name, if you please.’

Sloane shrugged. ‘Regarding the “Mysterious Miss M”.’

Guy gestured for him to be silent as the maid clapped down a tankard of ale in front of Guy and removed Sloane’s dishes.

Guy took a sip before speaking. ‘What would it take for you to agree to forget that piece of knowledge?’

Sloane’s brows shot up. A slow grin came over his face. ‘Did I not tell you what it would take? I want you to spread it around Madame Bisou’s that you and Lady Widow merely played a private game of cards, and that the terms of the wager have not yet been met.’

Guy kept his eyes steadily on Sloane’s as he again lifted the tankard to his lips.

Sloane continued, ‘Then I want you to step aside, so I might have a chance with the lady.’

‘I cannot do that,’ Guy shot back. ‘Tell me the stakes of the wager. I will pay you an equal amount.’

Sloane’s brows rose again. ‘Four thousand six hundred pounds?’

Guy did not move a muscle. ‘Done. I will have a banknote in your hands tomorrow.’ The amount would severely cut into the reserves he’d invested in the funds. It would strain his finances, and mean more years of pinching pennies so hard they would scream in pain.

Sloane laughed and shook his head, then pressed a finger to his brow with a wince. ‘You miss the point, Keating. The money means nothing to me. I aspire to win the bet. Winning the bet is the important thing.’

Guy gave him a look of disgust. ‘You would ruin that poor lady’s reputation for the sake of a wager?’

‘Well.’ Sloane shifted in his seat. ‘I confess not to have thought much upon that. I meant to induce you to my way of thinking by considering how your wife’s reputation would suffer from the association. I thought preserving her good name would be the ticket.’

Guy slammed the tankard down on the table. ‘Keep this matter of the wager between you and me. Why bring innocent women into it?’

Sloane leaned back, undaunted. ‘Why, to compel you to agree to do what I want.’

Guy twisted halfway around, gripping the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. He did not suppose a right hook to Sloane’s face would persuade him to co-operate.

Sloane put on a horrified expression. ‘Do not tell me you have developed a tendre for our Lady Widow?’

Guy glared at him.

Sloane took a drink and tapped his fingers against the pewter handle. ‘Your heart is engaged. Fancy that.’

Guy ignored that statement. He leaned forward, putting his fists on the table. ‘The point is, Sloane, why ruin the lady and her family? If you care nothing for her life, think of yourself. You would risk making powerful enemies. I dare say Heronvale’s credit in the world exceeds your own.’

‘I dare say it does.’ Sloane laughed.

‘Give me your word you will keep this damning information to yourself and never speak of it to anyone.’ Guy looked him directly in the eye. ‘I will pay you the money.’

Sloane did not so much as blink.

What would it take to make the man agree? Guy had no desire to challenge him to a duel, but it was beginning to appear that would be the next resort.

Sloane threw up a hand. ‘Forget the money. You have more need of it than I.’ He rocked back and forth on the hind legs of his chair. ‘I’ll give you my word, I shall never speak of the Mysterious Miss M.’

Guy peered at him, looking for any signs the man was not serious. He did not discover any. ‘Thank you, Sloane.’

‘Always felt sorry for her, to tell the truth,’ Sloane added, draining the contents of his tankard. ‘Didn’t like that gulling bastard Farley by half. He got what he deserved.’

Guy signalled to the tavern maid. ‘I’ll buy you another drink to seal the bargain. What will you have?’

Sloane grimaced. ‘Anything but whisky.’

A minute later they lifted two more tankards of ale.

Sloane eyed Guy suspiciously. ‘Tell me, Keating. You accepted my word easily enough. Why? Why trust me?’

Guy smiled. ‘I’ve heard you called many things, Sloane, but no man has ever said you do not keep your word.’

‘What a shocking lapse.’ Sloane took another sip. He put the tankard down and rested his elbows on the table.

A triumphant expression suddenly lit up his face. ‘I have it, Keating!’ He grinned like a harlequin. ‘If you do not agree to deny bedding Lady Widow, I will inform your wife of her existence. How would that suit you?’

Guy laughed. ‘Too late, sir.’ He took a long swig of his ale. ‘My wife already knows all about Lady Widow.’

 

Emily rode back to Essex Court in the Heronvale carriage. She’d stayed with Madeleine all the afternoon, but contrary to what she’d told Guy, she did not mention Sloane’s threat. As soon as her sister’s eyes glittered with pleasure upon seeing her, Emily knew he had been right. She could not burden her sister with this worry. Madeleine would be better off never knowing of the potential hazard to her happiness.

She and Madeleine spent a lovely afternoon together, playing with Madeleine’s daughter, chatting with the Marchioness, catching up on each other’s lives, though their conversations by necessity left much unsaid. Madeleine glossed over her time with Farley, and Emily glossed over her marriage. Nor did she mention Lady Widow.

One more night to wear Lady Widow’s mask.

As soon as she entered the townhouse, Bleasby informed her that the Dowager Lady Keating wished to speak with her.

‘At your convenience,’ Bleasby said.

At her convenience? Was that a nicety Bleasby added?

She went first to her room to make herself more presentable. Before she could finish tidying her hair, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ she said.

Lady Keating entered. She had never visited Emily’s room before. She looked much altered, smaller, paler, wringing her hands.

‘Lady Keating!’ Emily exclaimed.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ her mother-in-law said.

‘Not at all.’ Emily gestured to a chair. ‘Do sit down. I was on my way to see you.’

The Dowager sat in the faded brocade chair, one of a pair that provided a nice place for comfortable chats. Emily had never had a use for the chairs before this time.

Her mother-in-law gazed off into the distance, looking very distracted.

Emily went to her side, crouching down to her level. ‘Ma’am?’ Emily took her hand. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

Lady Keating’s hand was cool to the touch. She snatched it from Emily’s grasp.

‘I am not ill.’ She took a breath. ‘I came to beg you not send me away. Where would I go? I have no wish to be alone!’

Emily grasped both of her mother-in-law’s hands this time. She peered directly into the older lady’s eyes, forcing her to look at her. ‘You will not be sent away. That is all nonsense.’

The Dowager’s lips trembled. ‘Guy says—’

Emily squeezed her hands. ‘Guy will not send you away! Now let us stop all this foolishness. We need to be dressing for dinner soon.’

‘I cannot eat a thing,’ Lady Keating said dramatically.

Emily stood, giving a little laugh. ‘You must regain your appetite, then. Besides, if you do not appear at dinner, your aunts will worry. You do not wish to cause them worry, do you?’

Her mother-in-law’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and her expression lost all its drama. ‘Why are you being so agreeable to me?’

She had been fooled again, by a different Keating this time. She sighed. ‘My lady, I have no wish to be your enemy. Nor do I wish to split your family. These are your decisions, not mine. But make no mistake. I am the lady of the house and I will brook no disrespect.’

The Dowager rose and raised her chin mutinously. Emily, however, did not miss the fleeting look of anxiety in her eyes.

Emily did not know if there was any chance for happiness between her and Guy. But she knew she would never leave her marriage. She would not be traipsing off to some other gaming hell to win money. She would not repeat such a folly.

If she indeed would remain in this household, as she must, she was determined not to be overrun by her mother-in-law.

Emily extended her hand to Lady Keating. ‘Let us agree to be friends.’

Lady Keating stared at Emily’s hand and lifted her head defiantly. Without a word, she strode past Emily and went out of the door.

 

Guy hurried in to the townhouse near the dinner hour. He and Sloane had consumed a third round before Guy had realised the time. He rushed to his room to change for dinner, all the time wondering if Emily were here, if her meeting with her sister had been difficult for her.

He tried to think of the best time to see her alone, hoping his good news about Sloane would earn him some credit in her eyes. He would need it if he was to tell her everything.

Unlike the previous night when he’d left Madame Bisou’s, he was full of hope. Their afternoon, as difficult and emotional as it had been, had been a moment of unity between them. This night he hoped to strip off all the masks they wore and make love to his wife.

He found her in the parlour, standing by the window gazing into the street, now dark. His mother and her aunts were also present.

She turned her eyes upon him when he walked in. He met them briefly and smiled.

She smiled back.

His heart sang.

But for all that connection he felt with her, the room seemed to crackle with tension. He had forgotten the conversation with his mother that morning. Had his mother made things more difficult for Emily? He swore he would send her off by the morrow if she did not behave with more civility.

He glanced at his mother, who quickly averted her face. His aunts gave him the mildest of greetings and returned to their sewing. How much did they know? He hoped they had not been made a part of this discord.

The silence and tension in the room reminded him of a battlefield after the wounded and dead had been removed. Something of the horror always lingered. He glanced at Emily again and she returned a sympathetic look.

They were still attuned to each other! He nearly laughed with relief. The devil with the rest of them, he was happy to be in union with his wife. He took a step towards her, but, at that moment, Bleasby entered and announced dinner.

Emily walked over to him and took his arm. There was nothing impersonal in her touch. On the contrary, it stirred his senses as much as his hopes and he wished they could dispense with dinner.

He was eager for dessert.

When they were seated and the soup served, his mother said, ‘You were gone all day, Guy.’

He glanced up. ‘I had errands in town.’

The silence descended again. He ought to throttle his mother, who seemed unrepentant. With all their family had been through with his father and brother, she ought to jump through hoops like the horses at Astley’s in order to achieve some measure of peace. The devil with her.

He turned to his wife. ‘How was your afternoon, Emily?’

She gave him a meaningful look. ‘I took your advice, Guy. I had a lovely afternoon with Lady Devlin.’

She had not told Lady Devlin then? Excellent! That was the best of all possible outcomes.

He smiled at her. ‘I am very glad.’

‘What d’you mean about Guy’s advice?’ Aunt Dorrie asked, pointing her soup spoon at Emily.

Guy opened his mouth to answer, but Emily spoke first. ‘We walked through the park, and Guy suggested I call upon Lady Devlin.’

‘Such a nice family!’ sighed Aunt Pip.

Aunt Dorrie gave a huff. ‘I should have liked to call upon the Marchioness.’

Emily gave her a kind look. ‘Then we shall do so again soon.’

Guy’s mother sat stiff and silent during this exchange.

To his surprise, Emily turned to her. ‘Lady Keating, the Marchioness bid me to send you her very best regards.’

His mother glanced up. ‘Did she?’

She returned to her soup, saying nothing more. Guy bit down on a scold. Rebuking his mother in front of them all would not improve the atmosphere. He’d not risk things worsening, when matters between he and Emily were looking up.

Rogers appeared to remove the soup bowls and to serve the fish. Side dishes were already on the table.

After a few moments, Guy’s mother said, ‘Emily, the menu you selected this evening is quite well done.’

Guy looked at his mother in great surprise.

Emily, however, seemed to take the comment as entirely natural. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she responded in a mild voice. ‘I value your good opinion.’

Guy watched his mother favour Emily with a relieved, even apologetic smile. Guy felt like bursting into a triumphant song.

‘Do we have any engagements tonight, Lady Keating?’ Emily went on pleasantly.

‘No,’ his mother replied. ‘The entertainments are getting rather thin. I expect many have returned to the country.’

Emily added, ‘Have you read such announcements in the papers? There do seem to be many.’

Aunt Pip and Aunt Dorrie joined in the conversation, each declaring who they knew to be in town and who to be gone. Guy merely stared in wonder.

And in pride. Whatever had happened, he was proud of them all, conversing like one contented family. Just when he thought things couldn’t be happier, something better transpired.

The good humour continued throughout the evening. Guy was loathe to interrupt it to request a private conference with his wife. He would wait until they all retired. He fancied, after all, talking with his wife in the solitude of her room, where they might be private, where they might go on as husband and wife.

She retired early, confessing to great fatigue. His mother and her aunts had insisted upon playing whist, and he was roped in to be the fourth partner. They were almost finished the rubber and he could beg off after that very comfortably.

 

The evening was still relatively young when he ascended the stairs. He would catch her before she gave any thought to dressing as Lady Widow.

He entered his own bedchamber and went quickly to the connecting door. Giving only one knock, he opened the door.

Emily’s maid gave a shriek like before and dropped the dress she’d had in her hands. The girl was alone.

‘Where is she?’ Guy demanded.

She had never left the house so early. Surely she knew he wished to see her? Had he not sent enough messages with his inability to keep his eyes off her?

‘I…I cannot…’ stammered the girl.

‘You can and must tell me,’ Guy said, advancing on her.

He could not help his anger, it burned within him, trying to incinerate any hopes she’d gone to Madame Bisou’s for a repeat of their night together. He tried desperately to cling to that slim, nearly ashen hope.

The maid took tiny steps away from him. ‘I cannot.’

He backed her against a wall. ‘You do not have to keep your lady’s confidence,’ he insisted, his voice firm and fierce. ‘I know she goes to the gaming hell at night. I know she dresses in silks and wears a mask. Has she gone there early this night?’

The maid, eyes very wide, nodded.

Guy turned on his heel and stormed back into his room. Grabbing his topcoat and hat, he rushed down the stairs past a surprised Rogers, and out of the door.