What a Lady Requires (8 page)

Emma paused to paste on her brightest social smile—one that Miss Conklin had badgered into her—before greeting her guests. At her entrance, both ladies inclined their heads. One stood tall and slender with pale blue eyes that sparkled beneath the brim of her bonnet. The other was dark-haired and brown-eyed, but an air of liveliness draped her like a shawl.

“You must forgive our presumption,” said the slender woman, “as we have never been properly introduced. We’ve only just arrived in Town, but we heard the news.”

The dark-haired woman waved her hands. “It took ever so much convincing to prod Lind off his estates in the first place. You have no idea how that man is set in his ways. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I am Lady Lindenhurst, and this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Sanford.”

Emma bowed her head in turn. “My lady…”

“Oh, none of that. I was just getting there. I insist you call me Cecelia. We have no choice but to become the closest of friends.”

“We don’t?” Emma raised her brows. Good heavens, she hadn’t the first clue how to be friends with a woman. Since her first foray into society, she’d drawn the conclusion she simply didn’t know how to deal with female companionship. None of the other young ladies were interested in the things she was. Men, on the other hand—she was far more at ease in masculine company, with the exception of her husband, ironically enough. “And why is that?”

She couldn’t help her skepticism. She’d met too many daughters of the
ton
who extended a false hand only to turn around a moment later and disparage her humble origins the next. Still, a part of her yearned toward Cecelia and the friendship she offered.

“Forgive her,” Henrietta said. “When she gets her mind set on something, it is difficult to dissuade her. But do we not have the honor of meeting Miss Emma Jennings, who is to marry the Earl of Sparkmore’s younger brother?”

Emma gestured to the settee before settling herself into an armchair. “Please do sit. I am afraid you’re only partially correct. I married Mr. Battencliffe yesterday.”

Henrietta pressed a gloved hand to her lips. “Oh, then we are intruding.”

“Not at all. Mr. Battencliffe has just left on his errands. Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” She hoped they hadn’t come to hear the latest gossip. Even if they were newly arrived in Town, they’d likely heard more recent
on-dits
than she had.

“My goodness.” Cecelia perched forward in her seat. “I had hoped you’d recognize our names straightaway.”

If not for the journal, no, but something told Emma that was mere coincidence. “I cannot say I did.”

Henrietta and Cecelia exchanged a look. Some sort of silent communication passed between them before Cecelia turned the full force of her smile on Emma. “Tell us about your engagement, then. How did Mr. Battencliffe propose to you? I’m sure it was terribly romantic. He can be very charming when he chooses.”

Had Miss Emily Marshall made that request, Emma would have been positive the entire point was her humiliation. But she didn’t suspect any malicious intent on Cecelia’s part. Her words rang with warmth and sincerity, and she did not so much smile as beam without a trace of the smug superiority that Emma had come to expect from titled ladies.

Still, she approached the unknown with caution. “Do you know my husband so well?”

Again, a look passed between Henrietta and Cecelia, but nothing nasty lay behind it. Only a vague sense of surprise and uncertainty.

“I suppose we hoped you already knew something of Mr. Battencliffe’s history,” Henrietta said. “My husband and Cecelia’s were friends with Mr. Battencliffe in their school days.”

“And since Alexander is my brother,” Cecelia added, “I saw quite a lot of Mr. Battencliffe when we were younger—at parties, and he came to stay a time or two.”

Emma rubbed her hands along the smooth muslin of her skirts. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I was introduced to Mr. Battencliffe less than a week ago.”

Cecelia’s laugh rang with delight. “Oh, a whirlwind courtship.” The smile she sent Emma fairly bubbled with feminine complicity. “I imagine you could convince him to do anything—if you worked your wiles on him.”

“Work my wiles?” Emma rubbed suddenly slick palms together. “I believe you’ve come to the wrong woman for that.” She probably shouldn’t even admit as much to two near-strangers, but they’d doubtless hear the gossip soon enough. “I hold a singular charm for Mr. Battencliffe, I’m afraid. It has nothing to do with my wiles, and everything to do with my marriage portion.”

Cecelia reached across and placed her fingertips on Emma’s forearm. “Did you ever ask how Mr. Battencliffe came into such financial difficulty?”

“Poor investments, apparently. And his books are a chaotic disaster. I’ve just spent the morning with them. The man has no head for business.”

“I’m sorry to hear of his misfortune,” Henrietta said, “but perhaps that’s about to change. I certainly do hope so. And I, for one, would love to hear more about the young lady who made Mr. Battencliffe change his mind about settling down.”

Emma swallowed. The pair of them clearly meant to make something more interesting of her marriage than it was. She could only hope the tale would satisfy them. “Shall I ring for tea?”

What sort of man had she married? Though the conversation had passed to other topics, Emma’s mind kept returning to the hints Cecelia had dropped. Something lay behind the way she’d asked if Emma had ever questioned her husband’s finances. A possible secret. She removed her spectacles to rub at her eyes. She’d tried to return to the study and sort out the books, but her mind insisted on replaying the visit.

And as for working her wiles…That sounded as if Cecelia wanted Emma to persuade Battencliffe to…What? Their chatter had drifted to more mundane topics, and she didn’t know either woman well enough to ask them directly.

Perhaps that would change in the future. The two of them clearly wished to become friends with Emma. Over tea, they’d talked about the children under their care. On her marriage, Cecelia had become stepmother to Lindenhurst’s heir, who was apparently thriving under the tutelage of his governess. Henrietta went on about Alexander’s daughters from his first marriage, before confiding she suspected her family might gain a new member sometime next summer.

Emma drummed her fingers against the desk. The allusion to a new baby made her squirm in her chair. Her husband hadn’t managed to consummate their marriage last night, and his behavior this morning was hardly encouraging.

She couldn’t very well broach either subject with him now. Not when he’d gone out—to spend money, or so he’d claimed. Drat the man, and how were they to make any headway in this marriage or Battencliffe’s finances if he didn’t stay home and sort through them with her?

I have faith in you. I’ve taught you all I’ve learned.
Her father’s words floated through her mind. “Papa, where does your confidence in me come from?”

A throbbing started behind her left eye. She rammed the heel of her hand into her temple, but to no avail. The pulse continued its merciless rhythm. She contemplated the decanter of brandy. Less than half full, which meant her husband had likely helped himself to it last night. At any rate, she wasn’t at all sure she could stand such strong stuff. Not when her palate was more accustomed to the subtleties of fine wine.

A constitutional might serve her better, but one look out the window showed rain pounding down in sheets—which no doubt meant her husband wasn’t about to return any time soon.

Miss Conklin would have prescribed a nap. As much as Emma hated to lend credence to her former teacher’s notions of what was ladylike, this one might do her some good. So she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, but in the sitting room, she paused.

The journal lay on the writing desk, its bright red cover nearly mocking her with its cheery color. If Battencliffe had been friends with Lydia’s husband, there might be some indication of whatever Cecelia had been hinting at between those pages.

Emma might take a look, and then she’d know.
You’re here to set the man’s finances in order.
Simple, easy, emotionless. Prying into the man’s past might imply a sentimental attachment, and her marriage was never intended to include anything so untidy as sentiment. Business, ledgers, pure fact. Emma dealt so much more easily in those domains.

And look at the mess Battencliffe had made of his finances. Perhaps he couldn’t arrange his life any better.

Despite her internal arguments, the journal beckoned. Emma sat and ran her palm over the cool leather. The binding was smooth and supple, the very highest quality.

Emma opened the cover and scanned the first pages. They gave the impression of a breathless girl, excitedly preparing for her wedding to a viscount. A long-anticipated offer. Ball gowns, ribbons, laces, all the trappings a young bride might need. A glimpse of pre-wedding nerves. A fit of pique at her mama, who insisted on inviting her great-uncle Walpurgis in spite of his unfortunate propensity for pinching young ladies in scandalous places.

Perfectly ordinary, the entire account—everything Emma’s wedding to Battencliffe was not. From all appearances, Lydia had known her intended well. They’d grown up in the same social circles. She might have even fancied herself in love…

Barely a mention of Battencliffe at all. No, the entries were all about Lindenhurst. Nothing to be gleaned here, then. In setting the journal aside, Emma dislodged a loose paper. Mr. Hendricks’s letter, the one Battencliffe had all but forbidden her to answer.

But she needed to formulate some sort of reply to placate Mr. Hendricks. The truth would do quite nicely. It explained her silence as well as the difficulty she would face in pursuing the correspondence. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her. Dipping the quill in the pot of ink, she considered before scratching out the beginnings of her reply.

Dear Mr. Hendricks,

I pray you will excuse my silence this last week. I have quite unexpectedly found myself wed, and amidst all the preparations, I have sadly neglected your most recent letter. I beg your forgiveness. At the same time I must advise you that I shall be obliged to cease our correspondence.

It was far too early to head to his club, but Rowan set his feet in that very direction. An icy wind from a lowering pall of clouds whipped the lapels of his overcoat as he set off for St. James Street at a steady clip. Most of his cronies were doubtless still abed, sleeping off the effects of a late night of social functions that ended at a gaming hell or three.

But Rowan had to escape that townhouse and the memories it held. His jibes to Emma about visiting the tailor and the haberdasher had been just that—jibes. He shouldn’t give in to the temptation, but she was too easy by half to wind up, and some devil inside prodded him onward.

He had to admit the sight of her flushed cheeks, her snapping eyes, and her considerable bosom heaving was an enjoyable one. But he also knew he must face facts. He’d been handed a singular opportunity to get back on his feet. He must not blow this chance, for certainly there would be no other.

And that meant taking Emma’s advice. It meant not spending funds he no longer possessed, especially not on frivolities. He could manage without a new pair of Hessians—but damn if he could continue to live in that house when it still looked as it had more than six years ago. Lydia’s old bedchamber hadn’t changed a whit, but what were the chances he could talk Emma into redecorating it?

The reply came to him immediately, borne on an image of his wife glaring an admonishment to watch his spending. Bloody hell, but there was something not quite natural about a woman who took possession of a dwelling and didn’t promptly see about changing it to suit her own tastes.

But Emma was too practical. Beneath the veneer of silks in which she clad herself to satisfy society lurked a woman who preferred serviceable linens and cottons and wools. Even if she could afford better. And here he stood, a man of elegant taste who hadn’t the funds to hire a valet—yet.

And if you’d kept better control of yourself, you wouldn’t be in this mess.
True, but he refused to think about the night when he’d ruined everything.

Another gust of wintry wind carrying a spattering of rain hurried his steps. He entered his club just ahead of the impending deluge and scanned the room. Older members occupied chairs here and there, perusing the
Times
or trading the latest news. As he suspected, Crawley was nowhere to be found. Not Crawley nor any of the others who had been in on the scheme with him, but the hour was early.

Well, then. He may as well settle himself in for the next while in the hopes at least one of the men would put in an appearance.

He called for a newspaper and found himself a seat at an unoccupied table with a view of the entryway, but the details of the latest bills in Parliament did little to hold his attention. What did he care for importation or appropriation acts when he’d lost the last of his personal funds? That money, at least, was all
his,
damn it. If he could somehow regain it, he’d have something his wife couldn’t touch. And perhaps he’d prove himself to both her and Jennings at the same time.

Before long, a shadow fell across the page. Rowan looked up to find Crawley standing in his light.

“What’s the idea sending a Bow Street Runner after me?” Crawley brushed at his sleeves, spraying the newspaper with icy water droplets.

Rowan raised both brows. “I didn’t send him after you.” At some point, he was going to have to go out in this devil-cursed storm, track down Dysart, and have a chat with the man about his methods. “He was supposed to find Higgins for me.”

“Seems he found me instead,” Crawley said mildly enough, but that meant nothing. Crawley could discuss his own financial demise just as casually. “And put me through all the questions he meant for Higgins. At any rate, Higgins is gone, which is the same as I told that fellow from Bow Street.”

“I’m aware.” Rowan wasn’t inclined to invite the other man to sit, given the tenor of his approach. “I went to Higgins’s townhouse in hopes of catching up to him.”

“And you didn’t think to let me in on your plan before you brought in outside help?”

“I needed the outside help. Higgins’s butler claimed he went off to Italy.”

“Of course he did. If you came into a fortune, would you spend the winter in England?”

That gave him pause—had word of his hasty marriage already circulated? “I’d like to track down my funds if possible.
You
may well be able to sustain the loss, but I cannot.”

Crawley rocked back on his heels. “You couldn’t at the time.”

“I still can’t,” Rowan reminded him tightly.

“That’s not what I hear.”

“What exactly have you heard?”

“I don’t know what
he’s
heard,” said a new voice, “but I hear congratulations are in order.”

Rowan glanced beyond Crawley’s shoulder. Keaton, yes. Rowan knew him mainly by reputation—as someone to be avoided at all cost at the card table. He stood now, blocking the view of the common room.

“Do you, now?” Rowan asked carefully. He did not offer Keaton a seat any more than he had Crawley, but Keaton took a chair nonetheless.

He nodded. “The news has been going round that your fortunes have reversed since you fell into the parson’s trap.”

“Yes, indeed,” Crawley put in. “And what were we saying about not spending the winter in England if we could avoid it?”

Rowan ignored Crawley. “You might say that, yes.” At the same time, he wondered what Keaton wanted. It could only be one thing, really. He must consider Rowan an easy mark. “Although I should warn you my wife expects to thoroughly reform me.”

Keaton laughed. “Don’t they always? But just because you’ve been leg-shackled doesn’t mean you have to let her lead you by the nose, does it?”

“I don’t intend to, although I believe prudence to be the order of the day for the next while.” If he came across as henpecked, so be it. He wasn’t out to impress someone like Keaton.

“And I was hoping to lure you into a game.”

“In that case, I’ll leave you to it,” Crawley said. “But do me a favor, Battencliffe. Call off your dogs.”

Rowan scowled after Crawley’s retreating back. Yes, another meeting with Dysart looked imminent. Then he turned to Keaton. “I’ve never had much luck at cards.” Of which Keaton must be fully aware. “I don’t imagine that’s changed simply because I found an heiress willing to overlook my shortcomings.”

Then a new thought occurred. As long as he had to contact Dysart, he might as well do some probing on his own. “Why don’t you try Higgins? I’ve heard he’s come into some funds recently. They must be fairly burning a hole in his pocket.”

“Higgins, you say?” Keaton glanced about. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him of late.”

So much for that long shot. “Ah, well, I thought I caught a glimpse of the man. I must have been mistaken.”

“Higgins?” said a newcomer. “I heard he left the country.”

Rowan looked up sharply. Of medium height, with brown hair and eyes, the man seemed familiar in that vague fashion of a perfectly ordinary gentleman. No doubt they’d crossed paths at some social event or another, if not a gaming hell, but Rowan would be buggered if they’d ever been introduced. Several others stood with him.

“Is that right?” he asked carefully. “And who told you this?”

“I’ve heard it from a number of sources. Couldn’t say who told me first.” The man extended a hand. “The name’s Andrews, by the way.”

Rowan took it. “Battencliffe.”

“Did you get caught up in Higgins’s game, too?”

Rowan nodded. “Afraid so. And I couldn’t afford to lose the blunt.”

“Too true,” said another, his tone overly cheery. Too much so for the man to have lost everything. “He took me for five hundred.”

There was a general murmur of agreement and commiseration. Thank God Rowan hadn’t had that much left, or he’d have sunk even more into the plan.

“What do you think you’ll do about it?” he asked a gentleman on his left.

The man shrugged. “What can I do but be more careful in the future? I won’t get that blunt back.”

“Higgins had best watch himself if he ever again sets foot on English soil,” said another. “A good few of us will be out for his blood.”

“Yes, I heard Fotheringham lost out, as well.”

Good God, had half the
ton
’s younger sons fallen for the swindle? Rowan knew of five or six other investors, and here was another lot. To be certain, he asked around. Each of Andrews’s friends knew several others who had been taken in. And they’d all heard of the scheme from various sources.

All the more reason to pass along this information to Dysart. If the Bow Street Runner somehow suspected Crawley was on the wrong side of the scheme, these revelations would muddy those waters faster than the current rainstorm churned up the Thames.

“I’ve heard of games like that,” Keaton commented. “You recruit enough pigeons to put money in and have them find new investors. The funds keep moving up the chain, but the entire thing collapses under its own weight eventually. Either this Higgins chap was clever enough to run off with the blunt before that happened, or the entire thing fell through on him and he got out while he still had his skin.”