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The slow pace of the carriage made the drive back through the streets of London nightmarish. By the time they arrived home, Samuel had been silent for half an hour, his eyes closed.
“Has he fainted?” Emeline whispered anxiously to Rebecca.
“I think only fallen asleep,” the girl replied.
It required two sturdy footmen to get Samuel up the steps of the town house and into his own bed. Then Emeline sent for the doctor.
An hour later, Rebecca entered the library to give the doctor’s report.
“He says it’s merely exhaustion,” Rebecca said on finding Emeline sitting by the fire half-asleep.
“Thank goodness.” Emeline let her head slump against the back of her chair.
“You look exhausted yourself,” Rebecca said critically.
Emeline started to shake her head. She didn’t want to leave Samuel. But then she found herself dizzy, so she stilled the movement.
Rebecca must’ve seen. “Go home and rest. Samuel’s asleep, anyway.”
Emeline humphed. “You’re a dear child, but a trifle bossy.”
The younger woman smiled. “I’ve learned from the best.” Rebecca held out a hand to help her up, but then a commotion started in the hall.
Emeline looked to the library door in time to see Jasper blow in.
“Emmie! Are you all right?” he asked. “I went to your house, but you weren’t there.”
Emeline frowned. She was constantly amazed at how little Jasper knew her. “Shhh! I’m fine, but you’ll wake up Samuel with that bellowing.”
Jasper glanced at the ceiling as if he could see through plaster and wood. “I suppose he’s had a bit of a day, too, what?”
“Jasper—” Emeline began, about to give him a set down, but Rebecca interrupted.
“Do you mind if I leave you? I need to...to”—she knitted her brow, obviously trying to think of an excuse—“make sure O’Hare is all right.”
Emeline stared. “Who is O’Hare?”
“My footman,” Rebecca said, and sailed from the room.
Emeline was still frowning after the girl when Jasper interrupted her thoughts.
“Emmie.”
She turned because his voice sounded grave, and really looked at him. She’d never seen the expression that was now on his face—a kind of weary acceptance.
“We’re not going to be married, are we?”
She shook her head. “No, dear. I don’t think so.”
He slumped into a chair. “Just as well, I suppose. You never would’ve been able to put up with my foibles. Probably isn’t a woman alive who would.”
“That’s not true.”
He gave her a comically old-fashioned look.
“It might not be easy,” she amended, “but I’m sure there’s a very nice lady out there for you somewhere.”
One corner of his mouth curved. “I’m three and thirty, Emmie. If there was a woman who would love me, and more importantly, could stand me, don’t you think I’d’ve found her by now?”
