Page 43 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“But he already has, hasn’t he? He praised you highly in his letter to your father. This generous offer must be an indication of his affection for you. And don’t forget, you’re a d’Ibert. Your father’s is an ancient family with not one single blot on the escutcheon, and my family was highly thought of. Anyone would be proud to be allied to a d’Ibert.”

“Now you are marrying me off! Trust me, Mama, nothing could be further from the viscount’s mind. His affections lie in a quite different direction,” Emma said firmly. With his beloved Belinda.

Mama huffed in annoyance. “If I were in your position, I’d be overjoyed to try to capture his interest, for he’s handsome, wealthy, and generous. And obviously grateful to you for nursing him back to health.”

Emma started pacing again. “What a huge fuss over nothing! Honestly, people go around being Good Samaritans all over the place, and none of it in expectation of being offered a Season. I don’t need to be rewarded for caring for a sick man. Tidworth’s demonstrated his gratitude by finding a home for us and offering a good price for Tresham. I don’t need or want anything more than that.”

“I’m afraid it’s already been decided,” Mama said resolutely. “Papa is penning a reply as we speak. I shall write to George. He’ll be so pleased.”

Now, that sounded like an eminently good idea. George was so solid, so sensible. He could intercede with their parents on her behalf. Even if she couldn’t go back to obscurity at Figheldene, George would see the danger in trying to hide the fact that she’d been a governess from the Rossburys.

But would George be able to come right away? “How soon must we leave for Bath?” Emma asked.

“It won’t take more than a day or two to pack up here—we’ve little enough left to bring with us. And Tidworth has already undertaken to furnish the new house in Daniel Street. ‘The new house in Daniel Street!’ How charming that sounds! You must choose your favorite articles—I’ll make sure they come with us so you’ll have something to make you feel at home when you visit.”

“I still don’t like the deception, Mama. What if my past is discovered?”

Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Think how much gloss your reputation will have after you’ve spent the Season as the Countess of Rossbury’s protégé! Even with no dowry, you’ll have enough respectability to impress many more gentlemen than you could now. You could make a wonderful match—have a husband and children.”

Emma sucked on her lower lip. Mama was right about that, at least. As much as Emma loved Mary and Willie Keane, she had often lamented not being able to have children of her own.

So perhaps she would be a fool to turn down this opportunity.

But it still irked her that James had orchestrated all this without consulting her or her parents. Such presumption, to play with their lives like chess pieces!

Worse, with the d’Iberts gone and settled, he’d be free to do whatever he liked to Tresham. Her parents would never stand up to the man they viewed as their benefactor. The sale was going ahead—there was nothing she could do about that.

But how could she possibly surrender herself into the care of the cold, disapproving Countess of Rossbury? Emma would be forced to see a good deal more of James than she wished to…but could she make that work to her advantage? Installed thus with his mother, she might be in a better position to make him change his mind about his “improvements” to Tresham.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to Mama and said, “Very well. I will accept the Rossburys’ generous offer.”

But at the end of the Season, she would tell the meddling viscount exactly what she thought of him…and take control of her own life once again.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next few days were spent in a frenzy of packing, cleaning, auditing, and letter writing. George responded immediately, saying he’d help them unpack and settle in at Bath. He also said he’d taken the liberty of buying a new coat of dark green superfine—a necessity, he informed them, if they were going to be hobnobbing with earls and the like.

A generous promissory note arrived from the Countess of Rossbury for Emma to purchase traveling clothes and for any other expenses she might incur before arriving in Bath.

She stared at the money in her hand as if it were a vicious beast poised to bite her.

Had James put his mother up to all this? Was it guilt over his appalling behavior that had prompted him? Had he remembered that Emma had lain with him that night? Had he finally realized it was she, not his angelic Belinda, he’d held in his arms in the makeshift bed?

She prayed most fervently that he did not. If he ever taxed her with it—and she hoped he was too much the gentleman ever to do so—she’d persuade him it was just a feverish dream, the sort of thing that often accompanied an attack of the ague.

Whatever his purpose, or the reasons behind his actions, the viscount had been thorough. He’d even organized the transportation of themselves and their possessions and paid for it in advance. It had never occurred to him they might not want to accept his offer—indeed, by having everything in readiness, he’d made it practically impossible for them to do so.

Emma wrote secretly to Charles to inform him of these developments, and tried to explain her motives for agreeing to them. She begged him to forget that she’d worked as a governess at Figheldene and to mention the circumstance to no one in Bath when he came to visit his Aunt Letitia.

She didn’t write to Mrs. Keane. She’d let James deal with that.

George managed to arrive the day before they were due to leave Tresham. He was looking dashing as ever, proudly showing off his new coat with its W-cut lapels and silk lining and breathing new life into the exhausted and chaotic household.

She tried—and failed—to have a private conversation with him, outlining her concerns over James’s plans for Tresham. It being July, they would be approaching the end of the Season in Bath, but activity here in the countryside didn’t stop. All around Home Farm the haymaking was going on in earnest, and it looked to be a good yield. The wheat, too, looked promising. But would any of that matter a fig to the viscount, when all he wanted to do was tear everything up and turn the place into a characterless army barracks?

That final night, the rest of the family were all so tired they sought their beds while the sky was light and the thrushes still singing. Emma lay sleepless on her bed, gazing through a mist of tears at the bare walls of her chamber. How she would miss this place! The pink and orange sunsets of autumn, the mistletoe in the orchard, and the strongly scented box hedges of the old knot garden.

How could she stand to live in a bustling town like Bath? They still wouldn’t be able to afford a carriage, so how would she be able to get out into the countryside? Would she never again be able to sit on a field gate at dusk and listen to the soft churr and liquid song of the nightingale?