The Duke’s Obsession Bundle (63 page)

He glanced over at her, and wasn’t that just lovely, she was in tears now.

“Ah, Emmie.” He pulled her against him in a one-armed hug. “I am sorry, sweetheart.” She stayed in his embrace for three shuddery breaths then pulled back.

“You cannot call me that.”

“When do you think you’re leaving?” he said, dodging that one for now.

“Sooner is better than later.” Emmie wiped at her tears with her hand, which had St. Just tucking her fingers around his handkerchief. “When can you have a governess here for Winnie?”

“I’m not sure.” He spoke slowly, mentally tallying weeks. If he dragged his feet long enough, it would be winter, and Emmie would be bound to stay. “I’ve started the process for filling a number of positions, and we’ll have to see who comes along. Winnie won’t tolerate just anybody, and neither will I.”

“But certainly by Christmas?” Emmie said. “It’s more than two months away, and you are hardly parsimonious with your wages.”

“Is that why you’re accepting every order that comes along, Emmie?” He brushed a lock of her hair back over her ear. “You are saving against the day you leave here and your business might not be so brisk?”

“I am saving against the day I’m too old to work in the kitchens hour after hour, against the day I turn my ankle and miss a week’s business, or the day when I have to replace Roddy.”

“Petunia is trained to drive.”

“I can’t keep her.” Emmie got up and went back to work with her bowl and spoon.

“Do you mean you cannot afford to keep her or you do not think it proper to keep her?”

“Both.” She shot him an indecipherable look where he sat. “She is lovely, and the gesture was lovely.”

Lovely. He felt an immediate, irrational distaste for the word, but their discussion had been productive on a number of levels. First, he comprehended he had at least until Christmas to change her mind. Second, he understood part of Emmie’s bad mood and skittishness was due to sheer exhaustion, which he could address fairly easily. Third, Emmie had not expected him to react as he had to her lack of virginity. She had anticipated he would reject her for it or judge her, and it was a consequence she was willing—almost eager—to bear.

So he didn’t have her trust—yet. And he did not have all the facts. Emmie was keeping secrets, at least, and if Winnie’s disclosure regarding Bothwell was any indication, Winnie had a few things to get off her chest, as well.

Just like managing a group of junior officers. Always a mare’s nest, always making simple problems difficult, and always needing to be hauled backward out of the thickets they should never have blundered into. Except, he mused as he regarded Emmie’s drawn features, he hadn’t been in love with his recruits, and males were infinitely less complicated than females.

Thank the gods Bonaparte had not been female, or the empire would already have encompassed Cathay.

***

“So where’s your kitchen general?” Val asked as they settled in for a brandy in wing chairs before the hearth in the library. “She missed tea and dinner.”

“She’s asleep.” St. Just had sent a tray up to her at teatime, then checked on her just an hour or so ago. The food was half gone, and the kitchen general was facedown on her bed, one foot still wearing its stocking. He’d wrestled her out of her clothes and tucked her in, all without her even opening both eyes.

“She’s the prettiest kitchen general I can recall meeting,” Val said, toeing off his boots. “And she looks at you like you are the world’s largest chocolate cream cake.”

“She does not.” She might have once upon a dark night, but she was obviously retrenching from that happy aberration.

“She does too. When you’re out there on your horses, she glances repeatedly out the window, then just stops and stares and sighs and shakes her head and starts glancing again. When she came into the music room looking for the child, she asked me what kind of music you like best.”

“I like anything you play,” St. Just said, running his finger around the rim of his snifter. “When I was in Spain, I used to occasionally catch someone at a piano when I took dispatches into the cities, and even more rarely, hear a snatch of something you might have worked on. It made me more homesick than any letter.”

Val stared at him. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t something to be sorry for. A soldier needs to be homesick, or he forgets why he fights. Scents were even worse, as they’ve wonderful roses in Spain. They reminded me of Morelands in the summer, and Her Grace.”

“Did you read those letters she gave you?”

“I’m working up my courage.”

“Shall I read them for you?”

“Thank you.” St. Just smiled slowly at the fierceness in Val’s offer. “But no, I’ll read them. It’s just that things here at Rosecroft have gone widdershins in my absence. My womenfolk are not at peace.”

“Your womenfolk being Emmie and Winnie?”

St. Just nodded and slouched against an arm of the chair. “There’s a burr under Winnie’s saddle. Emmie thinks my absence did not sit well with the child. I suspect it’s Emmie’s flirtation with the vicar that offends Winnie.”

“Could be both,” Val said, pursing his lips, “but I doubt the local vicar has made any significant progress in your absence. I’ve seen how Emmie regards you, and Winnie must see that, too.”

“The child sees entirely too much.” St. Just eyed his drink. “She was allowed to wander the estate, more or less, when her father was alive, and Emmie has curtailed that behavior since his death. Just yesterday, however, Winnie purposely ran off.”

“Running away is usually an effort to draw attention, at least it was when we did it. Sophie and Evie ran off when you and Bart joined up, and spent the night crying in the tree house.”

“And you run off to the piano bench. I run off to wrestle with rocks. I take your point, and Winnie has seen much upset in her short life.”

“Are you sure Helmsley is her father?”

“Her mother said so, apparently.” St. Just blew out a considering breath. “The earl acknowledged the child openly upon her mother’s death.”

“Who was her mother?”

“Emmie’s Aunt Estelle.” St. Just set his empty glass down. “She was not a particularly virtuous female, nor was Emmie’s mother, though I gather they both were loyal to individual protectors and not available on street corners.”

“Does Winnie have any siblings?” Val asked, refilling his own glass.

“None Emmie is aware of.” St. Just watched as his brother sipped at the second drink. “Being a professional, I assume the woman knew how to prevent such things.”

“And what was Winnie, then?” Val cocked his head. “Divine intervention? Or did the woman think to trap Helmsley into marriage? If she’d a brain in her head, she had to know that man was only going to marry money.”

“And stupid money at that.”

“Doesn’t make sense, Dev. This aunt had some sort of pension from the old earl, didn’t she? And a place to live. Such a woman had no motivation to set her cap for Helmsley, particularly not a woman ten years his senior, nor a woman trying to provide her niece a decent upbringing. I can’t imagine she was hungry to waste her remaining years on Helmsley’s bastard, either. You’re telling me she had to be older than you are now when the baby came along—several years older. Doesn’t add up to me.”

“It is puzzling,” St. Just said slowly, thinking through the questions Val had just raised. “And you’re right: It doesn’t add up.”

***

Emmie awoke the next morning, horrified to see the sun was already up. How on earth was she to get the cake to the church hall and still have her deliveries on the wagon by noon?

She had to admit, though, as she hastily put up her hair and donned a clean day dress, she had
slept
, and some of the leaden, creaky feeling in her body had abated as a result. She’d slept more than twelve hours, in fact, and knew she could have bested even that record had the drapes not been drawn open.

She washed and dressed quickly and had the insight that lately, she was so tired it was hard to work efficiently, creating a spiral of inefficiency and fatigue she’d been too exhausted to see. She shook her head over that and repaired to her kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Emmie.” Anna Mae Summers emerged from the pantry, all smiles. “I’ve set the bread to cool, and I’m almost ready to start on the hot crosses. The dough for the cinnamons is rising on the hearth.”

Emmie smiled in return. “What on earth are you doing here, Anna Mae? I thought you were off to visit your sister while I’m here at the manor.”

“I’ve been back more than a week.” Anna Mae set to mixing up some icing. “I was dying of boredom when his lordship’s footman came by yesterday afternoon. This kitchen is bigger than yours and better laid out.”

“It’s very nice, but how long can you stay?”

“I didn’t come to call, Miss Emmie. I came to
work
. That wedding cake is going to look a treat, too. Enough to make me wish old Eldon Mortimer might take a girl to wife, you know?”

“The cake!” Emmie whirled, the morning’s deadlines looming up once more.

“It’ll be fine,” Anna Mae assured her. “His lordship has the dogcart hitched to take you over, and the layers are all boxed in the pantry. I’ve put the repair icing in the jar, and you’ll want a cloak, as it’s not exactly warm out.”

Emmie sat at the table and sent a bewildered look at Anna. She wanted to be indignant over matters running so smoothly without her, but her relief at not being behind was just too great. Then, too, she’d gotten more sleep in the past night than she had in the previous three put together.

“And, yes”—Anna Mae set the bowl of icing aside—“you have time for a nice cup of tea before you go. His lordship said he’d be in to fetch you when he had the beastie hitched.”

His lordship… Emmie got up to pour herself some tea. His lordship had taken Winnie off her hands yesterday, retrieved Anna Mae, shown Anna Mae what orders needed to be filled, and was now preparing to escort Emmie and her cake to church. She owed the man a debt of gratitude, one particularly profound given the way she’d treated him yesterday.

And the way she’d treated him the night before. God above, she’d all but attacked him… As she sat sipping her tea—hot, with lots of cream and sugar—the object of her musings appeared in the back hallway.

“I see you woke up after all.” He smiled at her, and Emmie knew with sudden certainty just who had tucked her in and opened her draperies. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Emmie offered a tentative smile. “My thanks for your efforts. I slept like a log, and the rest is much appreciated.”

“You aren’t going to castigate me for being high-handed?” He helped himself to a sip of her tea. “I thought you needed some reinforcements, and Anna Mae seems glad to be here.” Anna Mae winked at him for that pronouncement, and Emmie held her peace as the earl fastened her cloak for her then escorted her out to the gig. Three white boxes sat on the seat, each holding a layer of wedding cake. Caesar stood placidly in the traces, though the air was almost nippy.

“Don’t worry.” The earl handed her up. “I’ve driven the fidgets out of him already, and the church is only a short drive. You look a little less exhausted though.” He climbed up and settled himself beside her.

“Pretty morning,” Emmie said after they’d tooled along for several minutes. “And I really do appreciate your taking a hand in matters. I was about at the end of my rope with Wee Winnie.”

He smiled over at her. “You needed a nap, Emmie.”

“I did. I feel like I could use another one just as long.”

“Then take it. Anna Mae greeted me like I was Wellington himself, and she seems to have matters in hand.”

“What about Winnie?” Emmie frowned even as she stifled a yawn.

“Winnie has me and Val and Mary Ellen, if need be,” he reminded her as they pulled into the churchyard. “I get no end of satisfaction out of watching my little brother take tea with a stuffed bear and a dog. When my sisters played house, Val
always
got to be the baby.”

Emmie ushered him into the church hall, which doubled as the local assembly room. While she busied herself with setting up her cake, St. Just was sent to fetch the “repair icing” from the gig. He tarried long enough to release Caesar’s checkrein, allowing the horse to crop the soft fall grass in the churchyard.

“But, Emmie”—Bothwell’s cultured tones drifted through the back doors of the hall—“you know I’ve missed you.”

Emmie’s reply was murmured in low, unintelligible tones, causing St. Just to pause. The damned Kissing Vicar was about to strike again, but as a gentleman…

As a gentleman, hell… St. Just did not pull the door shut loudly behind him, which would have afforded Bothwell a moment to protect the lady’s privacy. He charged into the hall, boots thumping on the wooden floor, jar of icing at the ready.

“Now, Emmie…” Bothwell
was
kissing her, one of those teasing little kisses to the cheek that somehow wandered down to the corner of her mouth in anticipation of landing next on her lips.

“Excuse me, Bothwell, didn’t realize you were about.”

“Rosecroft.” Bothwell grinned at him, looking almost pleased to be caught at his flagrant flirting. “I’d heard you were back. My thanks for the use of your stables.”

“And my thanks for keeping those juvenile hellions in shape. You need a horse, man, congregational politics be damned.”

“Maybe someday.” Bothwell’s smile dimmed a little as his gaze turned to Emmie. “But for today, I’ve a wedding to perform.”

And Bothwell had known, probably from experience, Emmie would be bringing her cake over. Absent a special license, the wedding would have to start in the next couple of hours, and St. Just suspected the vicar had been all but lying in wait for Emmie.

“Em?” He brought her the icing. “Shall I go offer up a few for my immortal soul, or will we be going shortly?”

“I won’t be long,” she said, brows knit as she positioned the second layer atop the little pedestals set on the first. “I just need to put the candied violets around the base when I’ve got the thing assembled, and maybe a few finishing touches.”

“She’ll be hours.” The vicar smiled at her so indulgently that St. Just’s fist ached to put a different expression on the man’s face. “Come along, St. Just, and we can at least spend a few minutes in the sunshine.” They ambled out into the crisp air, St. Just willing himself to hold his tongue. Silence made most men talkative, and the vicar was no exception.