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Confrontation was not his forte. Nor was using his status to intimidate others. Yet here he was, on his way to visit Mr. Emerson for the express purpose of pressuring him into keeping Seraphina’s secret.
You can do this, he told himself.
Surely, with their future on the line, he’d be able to find it within himself to act like an arse—and pretend that Emerson hadn’t engineered his social humiliation only a few days prior. Trevor had no idea how the man might have accomplished such a thing, but Seraphina was certain he had, and he trusted her judgment.
The carriage stopped outside a small, modern townhouse, and he got up and opened the door, pulling a face as he remembered belatedly that future earls were supposed to wait for someone else to open doors.
Why? He had no idea. It wasn’t as if having a title rendered one’s hands useless.
Oh well, he’d already made a faux pas; he might as well compound it. He descended from the carriage and approached the townhouse’s front entrance. It was part of a block of homes, but each was separately numbered.
He knocked and waited. A few seconds passed, and then a butler opened the door, his eyebrows winging up at the sight of Trevor standing on the step.
Trevor handed the man his card. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Emerson, please.”
“Of course, my lord. If you wait in the parlor, I’ll see if the master is at home to guests.”
The servant led Trevor through a foyer into a moderately sized parlor that was decorated in ostentatious shades of red and gold that would have been more suited to a ducal residence than an untitled gentleman’s home. There were no family portraits and no heirlooms positioned around the room, but everything was elegant and perfectly maintained.
Trevor sat on a straight-backed chair and waited.
And waited.
After a quarter hour had passed, he deduced that Mr. Emerson was making him wait on purpose.
When the man himself finally appeared in the doorway, he was dressed in a brightly colored waistcoat and trousers, his cravat impeccable and apparently not bothering him in the slightest.
“Fitzgerald,” he said briskly, sauntering in and lowering himself insouciantly onto the comfortable chair opposite Trevor. “It’s generally considered civil to wait another hour before calling.”
Was it?
Trevor glanced at the clock. He didn’t think it was particularly early, but he did live in the country and tended to maintain country hours. “In that case, I appreciate you making an exception for me.”
Emerson rolled his eyes. “So, why are you here? And please don’t tell me it’s for something as tiresome as challenging me to a duel for Miss Dalton’s hand in marriage.”
Trevor’s brows furrowed. “I don’t see why I’d need to challenge you to a duel when she intends to marry me. It seems more likely that you’d be the one to challenge me, and I’m a decent shot. I expect I’d manage.”
Emerson stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Miss Dalton didn’t end your engagement?”
“No. She told me everything.”
“Everything,” he repeated dubiously, shifting from his relaxed posture to a more upright, alert position.
“Indeed. She told me about the quinine and your blackmail.”
“And you… aren’t here to challenge me to a duel?”
Trevor snorted. Really? Did he seem the type?
If it came to it, he’d do what was needed, but he preferred to battle with brains rather than brawn.
Slowly shaking his head, Emerson said, “I didn’t think she had it in her to break character. I believed that she was as dedicated to her act as I am. Disappointing, actually, but it won’t matter once we’re married.”
“You aren’t getting married,” Trevor reminded him. “Miss Dalton and I haven’t broken our betrothal.”
“But you will,” Emerson replied dismissively. “I know you don’t have the best grasp of what’s proper behavior, but even you must know what would happen if word got out.”
“Is all of this about the money?” Trevor asked, failing to understand exactly why Emerson was so determined to marry Seraphina. He didn’t care for her as Trevor did. “Lord Sylvestor tells me there are bets on the matter in the book at the Regent.”
