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"I'm afraid not."
To her surprise, Natalie threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, dear—'twill be a truly desperate undertaking! A single-handed frontal attack on the ton to shatter opinions, gather support here and reinforcement there—almost like a campaign in the army he so loves."
Emily nodded. "Exactly what I fear. Except 'tis likely to be your status and reputation under the gun as well as mine. I couldn't permit you to suffer on my account. No, we must convince him to drop this."
"Perhaps..." Natalie rested her chin on her hand and looked at Emily, her eyes narrowing. "But I'm not really the pudding-heart I might first have appeared. If you are the lady you both claim you are, 'tis only right you regain your place.
"Besides..." Natalie quirked one eyebrow and grinned, dimples flashing in a mischievous look that gave Emily a glimpse of the charm that had lured her skittish brother-in-law into parson's mousetrap. "I'm not so sure I wish to discourage him. True, gaining society's acceptance may be all but impossible. Launching my dazzling sister-in-law into close proximity with single gentlemen, however, one of whom Robert might eventually deem sufficiently wealthy and distinguished to take over her care, might just be the best solution for us all."
"You think to marry me off?" Emily said with a laugh. "How Machiavellian! But even did I wish to remarry—" she felt a pang and dismissed it "—gentlemen are as concerned about their family's consequence as ladies. I've been a shopkeeper, right there in London! I'm afraid my receiving an honorable proposal is about as likely as my being sent vouchers to Almack's. And the humiliation to us all should a presentation fail! No, I will not even attempt it."
"Perhaps it would fail. But think of the benefits to your son should it succeed."
A protest died on her lips. It was undeniable that a mother returned to the ton, no longer isolated in the shop, would do more to ease her son's path than any other factor save his recognition by the Maxwell family. The risk of personal humiliation was nothing compared to the gain such acceptance would win Drew.
'Twas her most vulnerable point, and Natalie obviously recognized it. In helping with the presentation, Natalie would be a heroine in her husband's eyes, championing his brother's maligned widow and aiding her to make an advantageous second marriage. At worst, she would earn his gratitude by risking personal harm in standing by the outcast. Assuming her husband's love was more important to her than anything else, as Andrew's had been for Emily, either way Natalie would gain.
Machiavellian indeed. Emily's admiration for her sister-in-law's cleverness and courage ratcheted up another notch. Bowing to force majeure, she said, "I suppose I must reconsider, then."
"Splendid! I'm sure you'll not regret it." Natalie linked her arm with Emily's. "However, unless we wish to be dragged along with whatever mad scheme Robert devises, we'd best plan a campaign of our own."
Chapter 14
Wet and weary, in the early evening drizzle a few weeks later Evan finally pulled up his tired mount by London Bridge. He'd left three days ago to ride to the coast and meet Geoffrey Randall, afire with impatience for a firsthand report on all his good friend and assistant had learned in the Peninsula. But Geoffrey never arrived. After waiting a day and interrogating every packet captain who made port, he'd found no trace of the man.
Deeply troubled, he urged his horse onto the bridge. He needed a hot bath, dry clothes and food before he returned to Horse Guards and tried to untangle the puzzle. Had Geoffrey not received his missive? Stumbled on new information too important to leave without pursuing? Or had something more ominous occurred?
Anxious as he was to pursue the problem, with Randall hundreds of miles away the small delay required to refresh himself would make no difference. But as he turned his horse north toward Mayfair, a submerged but ever-present yearning drew him to Emily's street.
He could ride by—'twas a public road. Filthy and bestubbled as he was, he'd not be tempted to stop in. Not that she'd ever permit that again, anyway.
Yet as he slowed his mount to a walk and saw the familiar landscape silhouetted against the dusky sky, a thrill of anticipation licked through his veins.
It faded as he reined in by the front door. To his surprise, the windows were dark. Curious. He was about to ride off when he noticed through the darkening gloom that the knocker was off the door.
For a moment, shock held him motionless. Could the staff have taken it down to polish? He could not conceive that she would have left London. Where would she go? As far as he knew she had no family, no friends beyond the military wife who'd once stumbled into her shop.
A more unsettling reason for her absence occurred, and he drew in his breath in alarm. Had her dreaded father-in-law finally found her? If the man had carried her off, was it to make amends for his previous ill-treatment—or would he wrest away her son and abandon her, alone and destitute in some distant village?
Early in their liaison, curious about the background of the woman who so captivated him, Evan had pressed Mr. Manners to discover more about her. A short time later the man informed him he had found no aristocrats with the family name of "Spenser", nor did anyone of prominence in the City recognize the name. He'd offered to dig deeper, but hoping eventually Emily would confide in him, Evan had not pursued the mystery.
Desperate to know she was safe, he wished now he'd persisted. How could he find her?
He might ask Brent her whereabouts—but he'd save that as a last resort. Gossip might help, he concluded. If Emily's father-in-law occupied the high position to which she always alluded, his discovering a long-lost grandson would surely elicit talk. Evan needed dinner, anyway, and would just as soon avoid his family and the inevitable inquiries his return would engender. He'd slip home for a quick wash and change of clothes, then proceed to White's.
Mercifully, none of his close acquaintances were present and Evan was able to dine alone. He could idle about the gaming room for an hour or so, see what he could glean, and then proceed to Horse Guards. Arming himself with a deck of cards, he went in.
Soon after, a group of young dandies entered in a rush of laughter and loud voices. One of the newcomers, a man Evan knew from Oxford, saw him and approached.
"Evening, Cheverley. Haven't seen you in a dog's age!"
Over the obligatory handshake, Evan replied, "Family business, Braxton. Dull stuff, I'm afraid."
"Isn't it always? Now, me and the bucks—" he grinned and indicated the noisy group now settling around several card tables ''—always find some amusement. Say now, did I not read in the Times that you're getting leg-shackled?''
At Evan's nod, he continued, "Congratulations, then. My sister's being fired off this year—you must bring your betrothed to her ball, right?"
"Your sister's ball ain't going to be the one to catch," one of Braxton's friends remarked as he joined them, bottle in hand. "Everyone's agog to see the Earl of Maxwell's little 'surprise.'"
Braxton held his glass up to be refilled. "Indeed! Now, there's a story! 'Tis his mistress, I'll bet—and so I've wagered. You stood some blunt yet, Cheverley?"
Listening idly, his eyes scanning the room for more interesting company, Evan replied absently, "Wager?"
"Aye. Haven't you heard? Seems the old Earl of Maxwell—now there was a bad bargain of a man—and that nasty pup of his, Alastair, both got carried off by a fever. Title fell to the next younger son—Robert, I think the name is. Went haring off to the army a few years back, displeased the old Tartar and got himself disowned. Anyway, the banished son was riveted to some prunes-and-prisms nobody last Season before Maxwell's honors fell in his lap—"
"But you're leaving out the best part, Brax," his friend interrupted. "Not only is Maxwell claiming he'll sponsor the grandest ball of the season—"
"Stubble it, Wilton, I'm gettin' to it." Braxton put up a hand to forestall his friend. "What tears it is the fellow's also going to present another female, the widow of his younger brother, he claims. And not just any old meek, mild dowd in black. This gel's reported to be beautiful enough to take the dazzle off every Diamond in this year's crop. Most incredible of all, though, until a few weeks ago, she was— you'll never imagine—"
"A shopkeeper!" Wilton inserted triumphantly.
Evan had been half listening, but those words recalled his attention with a start. "What did you say?"
"Unbelievable, ain't it! But all too true," Braxton replied. "Why, my own mama's bought hats at her shop. 'Madame Emilie' she was callin' herself then."
"Did you ever hear the like!" Wilton exclaimed. "M'father says even old Maxwell, unpleasant as he was, didn't have this much brass."
His heart commenced pounding and his head felt so light he wasn't sure he was hearing correctly. "W-who did you say the lady is?"
"A shopkeeper, of all things! Of course Maxwell's saying she's not really a shopkeeper. That she's—hear this, now— the long-lost daughter of a duke! The Duke of Suffolk, he claims."
"Some fairy tale, eh?" Wilton scoffed. "Mama knew the old duke, and she said the daughter died years ago. 'Course, the old duke's dead now, and the new one's a distant cousin who didn't grow up with the family, so can't vouch for the girl. Convenient for her, ain't it?"
