AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"How impossible? Where could he find another with beauty like yours? Fine words—do they not flow sweetly from your tongue like wild honey? Graceful you are as a cavalo galloping the plain, and—"
"Enough!" Putting her fingers to the maid's lips, Emily had to giggle, the absurdity of the whole idea easing her agitation. “Lest, like Narcissus, I fall in love with this paragon myself."
Brushing Emily's hand aside, Francesca smiled back. "You make the joke, but 'twill happen. I feel it."
Emily's humor evaporated. "No, 'twill not. Ah, Francesca, you are not English, how can I make you understand? Even were I to possess every charm you describe and more, 'twould never erase the taint of the shop. To marry so far beneath him—and despite your 'feelings,' he's given no sign of entertaining such a notion—would mean scandal and ruin for his family. Be assured it will not happen."
Francesca patted her hand. "And if there were a child? That would change this business of 'matches,' no? The great lord would surely—"
"Don't even think it!" Too agitated to remain still, she jumped up and began pacing. "We've been careful, oh so careful. Lord Cheverley cannot marry me and I would rather die than curse a babe with the shame of bastardy."
An equally humiliating thought brought her to a halt. She turned to point a warning finger at Francesca. "Don't you dare hint of marriage to him! I'll—I'll ship you back to Portugal!"
Francesca held her ground. "You are not so poorly born, eh? Such a match could happen, if you but tell him—''
"We tell him nothing!" Truly alarmed now, Emily seized Francesca's arm with both hands. "You mustn't tell him anything, ever, do you understand? What if he took it in his head to—intervene? We could lose everything! How could you even dream of risking all we hold most dear?"
The very possibility was so awful, so reminiscent of her worst nightmares, that she tasted fear raw and bitter on her tongue.
After the episode at her shop, she'd briefly considered revealing more of her circumstances to the Earl. And swiftly concluded to do so would be dangerously unwise. 'Twas no less so now. She fought panic, a familiar sick, helpless feeling in her gut. Tears welled in her eyes.
"Hush now, querida!" Francesca rubbed the whitened knuckles of the hands clutched on her arm. “I am not louco, no? Never would I put you or your sweet son at risk!"
Emily took a trembling breath. "No. No, of course you wouldn't. But Lord Cheverley is very clever. If you drop a hint here, a name there, he will shortly manage to puzzle out the whole. So you must say nothing at all. Absolutely nothing, Francesca! Promise me."
The maid sighed. "Wrong I think it, for truly he is so clever he must discover it in the end, no? But you've worries enough, querida. I'll not add to them." Making the sign of the cross over her breast, she kissed her raised fingers. “Promessa.''
So, too, did Emily fear that sooner or later Evan would discover the full truth of her circumstances. Uneasily she recalled his look of hurt, almost outrage, upon hearing her real name. Well, she'd deal with that eventuality if and when it occurred.
She was about to return to her tea when a commotion in the hallway drew her attention. "My word, such a racket. Francesca, will you—"
"Yes, mistress, I go."
Emily had taken one sip when Francesca's gasped "Maede Deus!'' propelled her out of her chair.
“What is it, Francesca? Is someone—''
The spectacle that greeted her froze the rest of the sentence on her lips.
******************************************************************
In the early light of dawn, Evan guided his horse into the quiet street before Emily's house. He'd not expected to return so quickly, but Andrea's resistance crumbled after he invoked the magic of Richard's name. As a Season required a whole new wardrobe, little time was lost packing. They'd traveled swiftly, reaching London last evening.
After dropping off his baggage and seeing Andrea settled with his mama and sister, he'd spent most of the night at Horse Guards reading supply dossiers. He really should go home and sleep, but a need stronger than fatigue pulled him to see Emily.
Probably she was awake, but if not, he could slip into bed and stroke her to consciousness. His body responded eagerly to the thought.
Wrapped in that pleasant imagining as he swung out of the saddle, he scarcely noted the yawning housemaid shaking out a feather duster, the hawkers calling out fresh milk and fish, the passing rumble of a heavily laden farmcart. Then a man stepped under the shadow of Emily's portico— a caller, it appeared.
Curious, Evan looped the reins on a post and approached. An elderly gentleman in a cleric's collar glanced back at him inquiringly. From behind the pastor a darker head leaned out, and he saw—
That face! The face in the miniature—vivid green eyes under dark, arching brows, a laughing curl of lip... A bolt of shock impaled Evan to the step, hand clutched on the railing, thought, breathing, motion all suspended.
Until he realized the figure beyond the cleric was not an apparition, not a tall, broad-shouldered, red-coated man, but a mere boy in nankeens and cap. A lad with the soldier's face. Unmistakably his son.
Emily's son.
For a moment Evan's ears buzzed and he had to gasp to pull air into lungs.
As if from far away, he saw the butler open the door and beckon, heard the cleric speak.
"Sir! Sir, are you quite all right? Drew, help me assist the gentleman inside."
Numbly he stared at the boy's small hand on his sleeve. His feet seemed to be functioning, for with the cleric on one side, the child on the other, he was progressing through the doorway and into the hall beyond.
With detachment he noted the butler's lips moving, the sharp gesture of an order being given, a scurrying housemaid. And the boy gazing up at him, the laughing look replaced by a frown.
His face. That face.
Evan turned away from it to see Francesca, and motionless beyond her, Emily.
For a moment they simply stared at each other.
Chapter 8
“Mama, what a lovely house! I'm so glad you let us visit!" The lad dropped his arm and scampered over to throw himself at Emily. She bent and hugged him close, nuzzling her cheek against his dark hair.
Holding him to her side, she straightened and looked back at Evan, her face expressionless. "I see you have met my son. And this learned gentleman is his tutor, Father Edmund. May I present to you both the Earl of Cheverley. Drew, make your bow."
"Honored," the cleric murmured, the child echoing an "Honored to meet you, your lordship," and offering a very proper bow. Numbly Evan nodded in acknowledgement.
The pastor looked uneasily from Evan to Emily and back. "Is this time inconvenient, Mrs. Spenser?"
She hesitated but an instant. "Not at all, Father. I am happy to welcome you to my home." She stressed the last words slightly. “Francesca, will you take them in for tea? I had Cook prepare fresh currant cake especially for your visit. I'll join you shortly."
"Of course, Mistress. Senhor?"
"Ama!" the lad cried, squirming out from under Emily's arm and running to Francesca. She caught him, swung him high and, gesturing at the pastor to precede them, bore him off. Arm in arm the two retreated down the hallway, exchanging a torrent of unintelligible words Evan concluded must be Portuguese.
Silently Emily turned and walked into the front parlor. Silently Evan followed, went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
She waited as he took a swallow. "It is my house?"
"Your—of course it is!" Slamming down the glass, he advanced on her, urged her none too gently to a seat on the sofa, then flung himself down beside her. She slid away, crossing her arms as if armoring herself against him.
The shock was still so great, he hadn't begun to sort out his whirling emotions. "Yes, it's your home. You may invite whomever you choose. But why, Emily? Why did you not tell me you have a s-son?" He stuttered over the word.
His son, his mind screamed. Your beloved husband's son, your cherished lover's son. A scouring jealousy spiraled up, choking him so he could scarcely speak.
"I thought we were friends, intimate friends," he said quietly. "I thought we knew each other. At least, you know almost everything about me. Not mentioning your change of name, that I can understand perhaps. A trifle. But a son? How could you have thought I'd be uninterested in that small detail? Did you think even knowing about me—us— would corrupt him?"
"Not, it's not that!" she cried. "It's...more complicated."
“I would be most appreciative, then, if you would trouble to explain to me the complications."
She sighed heavily. Clasping her hands together, she began in a low voice. “Most of it you know. That I ran away to marry, that the families disapproved. That my father-in-law would not even bestir himself to visit his dying son. When I heard nothing from him then, I thought our connection at an end."
Her face averted, her eyes gazing trancelike into the distance, she continued, "So I was surprised when, several months after Andrew's p-passing, I receive a message from him. 'Send me the brat,' it said. I realized he saw Andrew's death as an opportunity to control his grandson as he had never controlled his son."
She turned to Evan, passionate now as she had been ice before. "The stories my husband told of his boyhood! The floggings, the deliberate cruelty alternating with indifference. Oh, Andrew laughed with me about it, claimed his papa no longer had any power over him. But I saw his face after he broke the news that he was marrying me. In words that must have been the most wounding imaginable, his papa absolutely forbade it. I'll never forget how bleak, how... devastated he was. I knew, whatever I must do to avoid it, I could never let that man have our son."
