The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne (8 page)

“I trust that you scolded him for sending away your young men.”

“I did, politely but firmly. However, they were not
my
young men and I would appreciate your not calling them that. I am merely Fairbourne’s agent. That advertisement has absolutely nothing to do with
me
.”

“My, you are in a pique today. I hope that your disposition improves before we begin our meetings in the library. It will not be helpful if you present yourself as cross and unpleasant.”

“And why not? It is not as if I am seeking this young man to dance attendance on me.” She peered critically at Cassandra. “There can be no misunderstanding about that, I hope. I have wondered if including that requirement of enjoying female company was ill-advised. It seemed to me that most of those men yesterday were too bold in flirting.”

Cassandra shrugged. “I did not find them over bold. I believe they merely hoped to prove they had the requisite charm.”

“That requirement may have been ill-advised as well.”

“Since both were added by me, are you now criticizing my advice? You are out of sorts today, but please do not turn your bad humor in my direction.”

Emma bowed her head and tried to reclaim a better frame of mind. It was not fair to blame Cassandra for the embarrassment of the Outrageous Misconception. Surely Cassandra had not deliberately written the advertisement with the intention that it be interpreted in shocking ways.

Or had she? Cassandra’s comments about flirting and flattery doing Emma good sprang to mind. So did the suggestion that they find her a man.

No, surely not. Lord Southwaite’s accusations and presumptions were making her too suspicious.

Emma wished she had forgotten all about that humiliation by morning, the way she had told Southwaite she would. Instead she spent the whole night thinking about it. She had
tried to give fair and honest thought to the misunderstanding with which it began.

In hindsight, she had to admit that his reading of her advertisement had not been entirely implausible. Their conversation, which had been a comedy of misconstruction, might have even given him reason to think she was amenable to his scandalous proposal. However, as a gentleman he should have made sure that she did not mind being propositioned before assuming that she would agree to
his
proposition. His boldness could not be excused.

The night being long and her thoughts being deep, she had inevitably pondered why an earl would be interested in Emma Fairbourne at all, least of all as a mistress. It really made no sense, unless Southwaite preferred women far below him in station and was not above taking advantage of a situation where one dropped into his lap. The lower born, the more grateful, no doubt. The more ordinary, the more in awe of him. The less wealthy, the cheaper to impress.

His interest was not to his credit, nor to hers. And so, when her sleepy thoughts had wandered into speculating what it was like to be such a man’s mistress, she mostly managed to stop them before they drifted to the physical parts of such arrangements. Unfortunately, one thought snuck there anyway, and shocked her by provoking lazy titillations that slyly aroused her before she realized what was happening.

The memory of that made her feel ridiculous now. The entire Outrageous Misconception did. The only good thing to come out of the upsetting episode was that, once more, she had bought some time.

He had come to demand Fairbourne’s be sold, she was quite sure. He would return to raise the question eventually. She counted on him being embarrassed enough by the Outrageous Misconception that he would not press his case for at least a few days.

“Cassandra, I know that you think flirting is as normal as breathing, and part of a man’s charm when he possesses
any at all. However, do you think…I found myself wondering last night if perhaps my advertisement might be misunderstood by some of these young men.”

“Misunderstood? How so?”

“Is it possible that some of them believed the employment to be not only special and pleasurable, but also private? Very private.”

Cassandra thought that very funny. She answered between giggles. “I suppose if a man were inclined to assume you were desperate, he might. Or that I was, come to think about it. After all, you might have been aiding me in the search, not I aiding you.” She grinned while she patted Emma’s hand. “Believe me, when women do write advertisements such as you imply, there is nothing subtle about it. Only an idiot would assume that your situation involved nothing more than private intimacies.” She picked up the watch. “We should prepare. I fear it will be a long day.”

While Emma walked with Cassandra up to her bedchamber, Cassandra regaled her with stories of advertisements she had seen by women seeking footmen or workers with strong backs, warm hands, and various other attributes that would ensure the fellow satisfied a most private situation.

Considering that her own advertisement had called for a strong physique, Emma was not nearly as amused as Cassandra expected.

She suspected Cassandra had indeed planned to encourage young men to assume such private pleasures, if not with Emma Fairbourne, then with ladies who patronized the auction house. The new man should not expect the situation to consist of
nothing more
than that, but Cassandra assumed that had been part of Mr. Nightingale’s success, and had implied such duties when she revised the advertisement’s words. Emma felt very stupid that she had, once again, not interpreted Cassandra’s entendres correctly.

If she was right, then the Outrageous Misconception had not been nearly as outrageous as she had thought.

Not that she would ever admit that to the Earl of Southwaite.

*     *     *

A
t two o’clock that afternoon, Emma called for her carriage. She pulled on her black gloves, tied on her black bonnet, picked up her black parasol, and strode down the stairs of her house. On the second level she glanced into the drawing room. The empty drawing room.

Not a single applicant had been sent by Mr. Weatherby today. She and Cassandra had waited in vain all morning to see if Mr. Laughton could be improved upon by someone in today’s batch of hopeful young men.

A half hour later she entered Mr. Weatherby’s chambers on Green Street. After a brief wait, Mr. Weatherby received her.

She explained her surprise at the dearth of applicants today for her advertised situation. “Were there no inquiries at all?”

Mr. Weatherby, a solicitor who supplemented his fees by offering services such as he now provided to her, was a short, thin man composed of points, the most prominent being that of his nose. Pointed ears and eyebrows sung in harmony and, given the tune being played, even his shirt collar’s ends seemed to hum along.

He responded blandly. “It happens this way sometimes. Most of the response comes the first day the advertisement runs in the newspaper.”

“Most, you say. In this case it was all.”

“I am not responsible for the success of an advertisement, Miss Fairbourne. I cannot imagine what you expect of me, but I am sure that I cannot help you.” His nose aimed down to a paper on his desk. “My clerk will see you out.”

He was rudely dismissing her, without even the courtesy of an adequate explanation.

She remained steadfast in her chair. He refused to acknowledge that she still sat there. Finally she stood. Positioned across the desk’s expanse from the solicitor, she slammed her parasol down on the desk with as much force as she could.

The inkwell jumped. Mr. Weatherby did too. Then he reared back in his chair, eyes wide and mouth open, aghast at how close that parasol had come to his bent head.

“Mr. Weatherby, you were more than solicitous the day you sold me your services. You can remain courteous today as I ask the reason your services have halted with such abruptness. I am not so stupid as to believe that every single person in London even slightly suitable for that position came here all on one day.”

He just stared at her, and the parasol, with astonishment.

She stood the parasol up on the desk and held it by its hilt. “Did even a single man come here today in response to the notice?”

Mr. Weatherby nodded.

“How many?”

Dumbfounded, he held up five fingers.

“Why did you not send them to my house?”

Mr. Weatherby hesitated. Emma readjusted her grip on the parasol. Mr. Weatherby cleared his throat, found his voice, and explained.

“I
am thinking this must be it, Miss Fairbourne,” her coachman, Mr. Dillon, said. “ ’Tis the one the fellow at the White Swan described.”

Emma looked at the pale façade of the huge town house facing St. James Square. It certainly looked big enough to be an earl’s home. She would have to trust that the fellow at the White Swan had gotten it right.

She alighted, and paused to fish a calling card from her reticule. She gave her bonnet a tweak on its rim to ensure it was straight. Calling up the blistering fury that had brought her here, and swallowing the sudden misgivings that assaulted her, she approached the door.

Although overwhelmed in her memory by thoughts of the Outrageous Misconception, Southwaite’s parting comment about visiting the auction house had nagged at her all night too. It implied more interference than she had
expected, or than she could afford. Southwaite was skeptical of her claims about Obediah, so it would not do for Southwaite to loiter around the exhibition hall. If he did, she could not go there herself and attend to the duties that she had claimed Obediah would be performing.

By morning she had convinced herself that he would probably visit once or twice at most, and that his words did not herald the trouble she feared.

Now she knew differently.

She was shown to a drawing room, one three times the size of her own. Paintings hung on the walls and she recognized several as having been purchased at Fairbourne’s auctions. It was a very pale room otherwise, which set off the paintings quite nicely.

The furniture appeared finely boned, except for one rather large-scaled upholstered armchair near the fireplace. It had two gilt griffins flanking its sides, their legs forming the chair’s base and their heads supporting the chair’s arms.

She did not wait long before the earl arrived. He entered with a servant bearing a tray. Southwaite was dressed informally, as if he were visiting his country estate and had been riding. His circles would know what days he usually received callers, and apparently this was not one of them.

“Miss Fairbourne, I am happy to see you. Come and sit over here with me.” His arm ushered her decidedly in the direction he required.

He guided her to the fireplace. She perched herself on an elegant, padded bench. He took the large chair. She realized it was there just for him. He would be uncomfortable on anything much smaller.

He sat like a king on his throne, with one fine boot forward and his arms supported by the griffins’ heads. If she cared about such things, which she did not, she would have to admit that he appeared very handsome and noble today.

“You arrived just as I was about to have my afternoon coffee. Please have some too,” he said.

She had much to say to this man, and intended to speak quite firmly, but she hoped to avoid another row. She held
her tongue until the coffee had been served and the tray set aside.

She sipped some coffee. While she did the earl got in the first word.

“As I said, I am pleased you have called. My visit yesterday ended on a peculiar note, and there is no reason for us to be adversaries. You appear to be a sensible woman of some intelligence, and I am sure that we can cooperate instead of always arguing.”

“I am flattered that you perceived some intelligence. That is rare praise, I am sure.”

“Not so rare. I have met other women with intelligence. There are men who think the two things never go together, women and intelligence, but I am not one of them.”

“How enlightened of you. The truth is, however, that I have come here today because our conversation yesterday was not only peculiar, but also incomplete.”

“It was in several ways, I agree. Most lacking was your acceptance of my apology for the misunderstanding. I hope that you will accept those apologies now.”

“Thank you. I shall. I have quite forgotten the matter already.”

“It was also incomplete regarding the disposition of Fairbourne’s, of course. May I assume that is what brought you here? I knew you would see what must be done once you thought about it. I promise you that I will take care of everything involved.”

“I did not come here to discuss the disposition of Fairbourne’s, Lord Southwaite. That subject is well settled between us. Any disposition is still out of the question.”

He looked away but she saw exasperation flicker in his eyes. His attention returned to her. A tight smile formed on a face that had turned less amiable. “Then how can I help you, Miss Fairbourne? What other part of our conversation was incomplete? Ah, yes—I did not finish with my romantic proposition by discussing the usual details. Have you come here for that?”

She could not believe he made this reference to the Outrageous Misconception. He had just apologized a second time, hadn’t he? They should be pretending it had never happened.

Instead he all but invited her once more to be his mistress, only without any misunderstanding as an excuse.

He watched her with dark humor. He was not flirting. Surely not. However, he observed her most specifically, as if he were truly interested in her reaction. She could not dispel the notion that he waited to see his reference fluster her, as if that would be some victory for him.

She managed not to reveal her surprise. However, she reacted to his gaze and insinuation, and not with the indignation that was warranted. Instead of disgust or anger, a very different emotion affected her. A thrilling sensation fluttered up to her throat, then spiraled down through her body, stirring her. Invisible sparkles danced on her skin and a foolish giggle bubbled in her brain. It was much like the taste of forbidden pleasure last night, only much less languid.