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"I still place my money on her being his mistress," Braxton stated. "Must be some hot bedmate to have him so swoggled he thinks he can perpetrate this outrageous a hoax. And his poor wife! Humiliating, even for a country nobody."
Evan couldn't speak, couldn't move. Earl of Maxwell. Disowned brother in the army. Widowed shopkeeper. It all fit—fit too perfectly to be coincidence. It must be true.
Then the last bit of information sank in. Long-lost daughter of the Duke of Suffolk.
Through his numbed brain he tried to recall every scrap of information Emily had ever divulged about her father. That he was wealthy, powerful. That he opposed her marriage to a younger son. That he commanded her absolute obedience and would not tolerate being crossed.
Evan had always assumed the man was some wealthy captain of industry who wished his daughter wed to either an equally rich bourgeois or a nobleman whose family countenanced the match. Yet everything she had told him of her upbringing fit perfectly the image of a duke's runaway daughter.
That instinctive grace and air of command, too inborn to have been veneered on by some ladies' academy. Her independence, her fierce refusal to submit to anyone. Even her real name—Auriana Emilie. What English bourgeois counted a French aristocrat among her relatives?
It had all been there, all the pieces, and he too blinded by her current position and his own prejudice to see it. He had agonized over her status, dismissed outright the prospect of marriage. With the daughter of a duke, who from birth had outranked him.
Through the roaring in his ears he heard the conversation continue.
“How he thinks to pass off such an adventuress is beyond belief—" Braxton was saying, "—but you can bet everyone who can wrangle an invitation will be there. Can't wait to see Sally Jersey and that dry stick Countess Lieven give the filly the cut direct."
"Aye," Wilton chimed in. '"Twill be the best show since old Earl Simpson tried to bring his opera singer to Lady Wetherby's ball. You're attending of course, aren't you, Cheverley?"
Speech was still beyond him. Evan merely nodded.
"Come on, Brax, there's a table getting up. You, too, if you'd like, Cheverley. No? Well, later perhaps."
Clutching his bottle in one hand and Braxton's elbow in the other, Wilton led his friend away. "What's wrong with Cheverley?" Evan heard him say as the two walked off. "Looks devilish queer, don'tcha think? Not sickening with something, is he?"
He was still staring at his trembling hands when the anger hit.
All those weeks they had shared thoughts, dreams, every physical intimacy. He had agonized over the decision to break with her, a break that might have been unnecessary, had he known who she was. He could have held off proposing, begged his mama's assistance in keeping his vow to Richard by finding some other worthy man to appreciate Andrea's gentle excellence. He would have tried something, everything, before taking the step that now rendered a union with Emily forever out of reach.
Why had she never told him?
It appeared she had been reclaimed by her husband's family, would be presented with their backing and surely, eventually, be accepted. Having been a shopkeeper would hurt, that was true. But only the very highest of sticklers were likely to exclude forever the daughter of a duke.
She would be entering the society he frequented. He might see her at any number of routs or dinners or parties.
And the household of the Earl of Maxwell, with her included, would surely be sent an invitation to his wedding.
A short time later he found himself at his office without remembering a step of the way. With steel discipline he forced his mind to the urgent matter of Geoffrey Randall's disappearance.
Another friend dispatched to the fray of battle while he remained behind. Dear God, don't let Geoff end up as Richard did.
His stomach soured at the thought and he focused instead on relentlessly examining every shred of information. Hours later, exhausted and disheartened, he had to admit he'd drawn a blank. No one at Horse Guards, nothing in any recent communication, gave him any clue to his assistant's whereabouts.
Finally he gave up. It had, he concluded with bitter irony, been quite an evening. In honor of all he'd learned, he decided to return to White's, where he immediately ordered a bottle of brandy. And then another and another, until for the first time in the history of his membership, the Earl of Cheverley had to be carried home unconscious.
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The morning of Robert's grand ball Emily sat with Brent in the drawing room of the Maxwell family's London town house. She still could not quite believe she now resided within the austere marble-fronted walls she had so often this last year hidden in the shrubbery of the park to scrutinize for signs of occupancy.
"Nervous?" Brent interrupted her thoughts. "You shouldn't be. Rob and his army friends will be there, and me, of course. Not that you'll have need of our influence. Which," he added with a self-deprecating smile, "is fortunate since I wield little of it. But the rich and powerful of London have only to see you to recognize the truth of who you are."
Rising from her armchair, Emily sighed and walked to the window. “I wish I might believe it, but I'm afraid I rather think it will be a disaster. Oh, I've tried to talk Rob into letting me out of this! But even after we called on my mama's Aunt Augusta, who made it quite clear that though she admitted us to her drawing room she had no intention yet of acknowledging the connection, he's refused to let me withdraw. Why can he not see Natalie deserves her own presentation, free of the taint of scandal I bring?"
"Perhaps." Brent came over to stand beside her. "But having you reside with them without presenting you would seem an admission the family doesn't really believe you to be Suffolk's daughter. Better to unite and strike boldly."
"I suppose. Since Rob's invited every person of importance in London, they can watch the bold strike fail together,” she added with asperity. “Oh, I care not for myself! Rob's sponsorship alone will be enough to secure Drew's future, and as for me—I'd hardly weep over rejection by a society I've never known or needed. But Natalie..."
Emily swallowed hard. One of the many blessings of being discovered by Rob was getting to know her sister-in-law. The tentative accord they'd reached that first day had grown, once time had proven Emily had no designs upon Rob, into a deep and true friendship Emily had come to cherish.
"Military men! They ever know what is right upon every occasion. I swear, if this presentation turns to disaster and my blameless sister-in-law finds herself ostracized because of me, I shall never forgive Rob!"
"Your blameless sister-in-law would never forgive herself were she not to stand beside you." Natalie's voice came from the doorway. Her blond hair shining, her face serene, she came swiftly to give Emily a hug. "Stop worrying! I predict you'll be un succès fou, and your only regret will be the ballroom isn't large enough to contain more of your admirers."
While Emily sniffed in patent disbelief, Brent replied, "I must be happy for the small stature of the room, then. Once she's besieged by men of larger rank and fortune, I fear 'Lady Auriana' will no longer have time for those who knew her as plain 'Emily.'"
The wistful note in his tone brought her up short. Impulsively she put a hand to Brent's cheek. "Not have time for those who befriended me when I was but a shopkeeper, rode with me, dined with me? I will always be Emily to my friends—how could you imagine otherwise?"
Brent covered her hand with his own, pressed it into his cheek. Heat flaming in his eyes, he whispered, "How glad I am to hear it."
Uncomfortable under his ardent gaze, she lowered her own. Behind her, Natalie cleared her throat and the now-familiar mischievous expression sparkled in her eyes. "I'll leave you two. Don't forget you're coming to dine before the ball, Brent. And wait until you see Emily's dress! Her design's exquisite—she looks not like a duchess, but a princess! Well, I've a thousand things yet to do. See you at dinner." Blowing them a kiss, Natalie walked away.
"I should help." Emily tugged gently at the hand he still held. “But before I rush off, please let me emphasize again, if I haven't yet made it sufficiently clear, how much your kindness and support have meant. Thank you, Brent. You shall have my friendship always."
He placed a light kiss on her hand before releasing it. “I hope for a good bit more, you know. But for now, 'tis enough that you'll promise not to forget me in the flood of suitors who will shortly be vying for your attention."
Emily smiled wryly. "Once the gentlemen discover that I not only designed hats and waited upon customers in a shop, but intend in future to continue at least the designing, I doubt there will be a trickle, much less a flood of suitors. Especially once I return to my own house. I've been humoring Rob by remaining here until the presentation, but I've been mistress of my own establishment for too long to live in another household, even with my family. In any event, I've no interest in marrying again."
Grinning, Brent released her hand. "We'll see about that. But no more now. How does Rob feel about your maintaining the business?"
"Rob?" She chuckled at the memory. When she'd warned Rob she would not have her creative efforts relegated to the genteelly acceptable ones of china painting and needlework—perhaps secretly hoping the fact would dissuade him from presenting her—he'd surprised her by agreeing. "He's ever been the rebel, even more so than I. His first response was that Lady Auriana Spenser Waring-Black of Suffolk can do what she damn well pleases. His second was that he hoped I'd earn enough from the enterprise to support expanding his stables."
