Page 26 of Vanquishing the Viscount

James’s heart pumped harder. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss. At least, not with Mr. Keane due back any moment.

“I thought I had good reason,” James said, equally softly. “You have a bad reputation when it comes to misusing servants.”

“Ah, but this one’s different,” Charles said, pinching James’s arm for emphasis. “There’s something special about her. I believe you’ve noticed it yourself, or you wouldn’t have paid for her to hire a private carriage back to wherever it is she comes from.”

Damnation! He hadn’t wanted Charles to find out about that. It was meant to have been kept between himself and Mr. Keane.

“I felt sorry for the girl,” James replied, keeping his tone light. “The expense was nothing to me. I knew your mama would never have approved of the governess traveling in a hired chaise, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone, so I dealt directly with your father.”

“Yes,” said Charles, his mouth twisting. “You and he are always in cahoots. I sometimes wonder why I’m still friends with you when all you do is show me up.”

“And I wonder why I’m still friends with you,” James retorted with a wry grin, “when you never have a good word to say about me!”

Charles waved a dismissive hand. “That’s all beside the point. I just wanted you to know that I’m serious about Hibbert. So, there’s no need for you to dash in and think you’re rescuing her. Just leave me to court her in whatever way I choose, and don’t interfere.”

Court her?

James’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt the muscles of his jaw clench. He didn’t know what to say. He was being warned off?

But Charles wasn’t serious, surely? Court his family’s governess? Marry his family’s governess? It would be scandalous in the extreme. Any liaison between Emma and Charles would prove Charles’s undoing. He would be disowned by his father, his mother and, more particularly, by his mercurial Aunt Letitia, from whom he expected to inherit a considerable amount of money.

Before James could comment or examine his feelings any further, he heard footsteps coming along the passageway.

Edging away from Charles, he took up position by the window again and schooled his expression to one of polite neutrality as Mr. Keane came back into the room. But his heart still pounded uncomfortably from the shock of Charles’s revelation.

As he joined Mr. Keane at the table to pore over the newspapers he’d brought in with him, Charles left the room, tapping his nose knowingly as he left.

And James realized why his heart was pounding.

He’d never before come so close to punching his best friend. This situation between Charles and Miss Emma Hibbert was unacceptable for all concerned.

It was clearly up to James to do something about it.

But what?

Chapter Eighteen

Emma sat on the windowsill of the chamber she’d called her own for the past twenty-two years and gazed out. The fact that she was home, at last, brought joy mixed with agony.

How could she ever say farewell to this place? She loved it almost as much as she loved her family, and the idea of someone else sitting in this spot, relishing this view of lush green countryside, was anathema.

For a while, she lost herself just admiring the overgrown gardens below and watching exhausted blackbirds whipping in and out of nearby hedgerows, either feeding current families or preparing for new ones. Soon she’d have to put on her oldest clothes, tie back her hair, and set to work on those very hedges, removing the choking bindweed, hacking back the brambles, and ensuring the immediate environs of Tresham Hall looked attractive to would-be buyers.

Would Charles write to her, as he’d promised? It was an unexpected offer, made when she expressed regrets that she wouldn’t know how Willie was faring at Brighton. At her protest that it would be thoroughly improper, Charles had called her a stick-in-the-mud, winked, then pinched her cheek. Fortunately, she’d remembered just in time to give him the Four Swans as her direction, rather than Tresham. Carrier Marshman would bring her any letters received at the inn when he next came by.

Sheer delight had filled her heart when her hired chaise had deposited her at the inn, and she caught sight of Marshman’s cheerful country countenance as he waited to pick up passengers. Unfortunately, whenever she thought of Marshman, she couldn’t help but recall the moment she’d first laid eyes on Viscount Tidworth.

A peculiar feeling of loss assaulted her. She fought against it, smiling wanly at her own folly. Tidworth had paid her back in full for insulting her and owed her nothing further.

Certainly not an explanation of what he had been doing with Philippa Keane in his bedroom, well after everyone else was asleep.

Slipping off the windowsill, she ventured downstairs, collecting her basket and shears en route. Briefly, she looked in on Papa where he sat at his desk and was pleased to see the color was gradually returning to his cheeks after his illness. George’s treatment regime had been most effective, thank heaven.

The sun glinted off the diamond-paned windows like myriad stars as she stepped into the courtyard, then made her way down the lane to where she’d left off weeding the day before. It was a beautiful afternoon, and late June flowers brightened the hedgerows—honeysuckle with its sweetly heavy scent, pink and purple foxgloves, and the impressively tall spikes of giant mullein.

Setting her basket down on the verge, she set to work dragging out the bindweed. It was a satisfying but mindless task, and her thoughts drifted back to the conversation she’d had with George when he’d paid them a short visit.

She’d told her brother about Charles Keane’s amorous behavior and received a stark warning to keep the man at arm’s length. George—with unsettling vehemence—offered to deal with the fellow personally if he upset or embarrassed her again.