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But with Natalie reinforcing his prodding that she follow up the modest success of her presentation by daily reminding the ton she belonged in their midst, she endured both the Promenade and the fistful of evening invitations to which the more daring or independent hostesses bade her. Though she found the social round even more stultifying than expected, after the risk Nat and Rob had taken to present her she felt she could not refuse what was, after all, the relatively small effort needed to solidify her still-precarious acceptance.
And Natalie did rejoice so in her success. Natalie who, dreamer that she was, still cherished hopes of Almack's, next Season if not this one. Despite Emily's gently worded reminder that her refusal to abandon the unredeemably vulgar taint of trade would forever damn her as “bad ton'' in the minds of the haughtiest in society.
At least, she thought sardonically, the park promenade, either on Brent's arm or seated in his curricle, allowed her to show off her designs, which had resulted in a gratifying rush of additional orders.
Without doubt, her design work and the easy camaraderie of her outings with Brent were the most pleasant parts of her new life—"pleasant" being the highest superlative she could yet manage, with the sting of loss still so sharp in her mind and deep in her bones. Sometimes, making her way through a ball or dinner murmuring the inconsequential chat that passed for social conversation, she felt like a French fashion doll: beautifully gowned in the latest mode, eternally smiling, dead.
Evan had done his work well. In nearly a month she'd not had so much as a glimpse of him. Indeed, so strong was the sense of his absence 'twas almost as if he had vanished from London completely. Though with it now the height of the Season, she knew that to be impossible.
She was nearly tempted to ask Brent if something had happened to him, but Evan was the one subject they both avoided. The only time she'd mentioned him, the name flying from her lips before she could recall it, a hard, shuttered look had replaced the easy friendliness that usually warmed Brent's face, and he'd uttered a terse reply.
On every other subject he was a perceptive and amusing companion. By day he dragged her out of the design office and showed her the London she'd never seen as a girl and that the shopkeeper had had neither time nor money to sample: the equestrian displays at Astley's, the bookshelf-lined pleasures of Hatchard's, the Tower menagerie, ices at Gun-ter's.
Evening functions he enlivened with outrageous commentary on the life and loves of the attendant personages. If hostesses presented her with dancing partners, he relinquished her with no trace of possessiveness, then watched from the sidelines, seeming as pleased as Natalie at this evidence of her acceptance. Though he often danced himself, sometimes drifted away with friends, Emily could still sense his guarding presence, always close to assist with introductions, to deflect potential snubs or impertinent advances.
And on the evenings he escorted her home, he'd grown bolder. After Natalie and Rob discreetly withdrew, he drew her close, kissing her with barely repressed fire, his clenched fingers on her shoulder a testament to his rigid control. She found his advances—-pleasant, their gradually increasing passion drawing from her a spark that might someday be response.
He'd not yet pushed her for an answer to his offer. Reason told her to say no, that to delay was to leave him cruelly suspended in tenuous hope. But the troubled spirit his presence did so much to calm and soothe, the fragile selfish self whose defense against agony was still eggshell thin, prevented her refusing. Was that not a sign she might someday feel more?
Perhaps, her cynical mind answered. However, was she truly ready to promise her life to a man who made her feel— pleasant?
The clattering rattle of a carriage outside the window recalled her. Brent pulled up his equipage, tossed the reins to a footman and jumped down from his curricle.
His face, when he entered half a minute later, was so grim alarm surged in her breast.
"What is it? What's happened?"
"Nothing...truly serious. Sorry I'm so late. Come, we'll be caught in the crush. I'll tell you as we drive."
Anxious, she hurried into her pelisse, waited impatiently as he handed her into the curricle. Foreboding curled chill and metallic in her mouth.
The heavy traffic forced her to refrain from demanding an answer as Brent concentrated on the tricky business of keeping two restive, highbred horses moving safely along the crowded streets.
Finally the Park gates beckoned and she could stand it no longer. "What happened, Brent?"
"You mustn't upset yourself, Emily. Everything will be fine, I'm sure. He's strong and will doubtless recover."
Fear froze the breath in her chest. 'Twas scarcely necessary, but she gasped out the question anyway. “W-who?''
"Evan. He's been gone over a month on some mission for the ministry. There were rumors circulating White's and Brook's even before he left—something about arms smuggling or embezzlement. He went to check on it. I—I didn't tell you because I feared you'd worry."
That curious, inescapable sense of his absence had been correct, apparently. And she was worried, so worried she pulled at Brent's sleeve, her tone turning sharp. "Recover? From what?"
"Steady now!" He looked up from the reins. "When Lady Cheverley received the news, she sent for me to accompany her to meet him. We've only just made it back to London. Though I expect, as soon as the doctors say he can stand being moved again, we may take him to Highgrove."
"How...how badly injured is he?" Emily managed to ask through trembling lips.
A worried frown deepened the lines at Brent's forehead. Worry, regret—and fear? "I won't dissemble—he looks very ill. Took a knife to the right side of his head and arm. He's...he's not conscious, and the wound's inflamed, I'm afraid. Lady Cheverley's physician is out of town and will not return before morning. For now, he appears to be holding his own, and I'm sure he'll be fine...." His voice trailed off. "But I wish with all my heart," he added so softly she could barely hear, "there were some words I could unsay."
For the rest of the transit in the Park she felt detached from her body, which continued to repose sedately in Brent's curricle, nodding to passing acquaintances or chatting with those who stopped their carriage.
All the while her mind hummed with feverish questions. How severe were his wounds? Were they badly inflamed? What treatment had he been given before or during his transit? If he were "holding his own," why was he unconscious and why did Brent look so worried?
Her mind relived the first harrowing days after Andrew's final injury—the thin trickles of blood that seeped red, turned rust on the bed linens; the ragged gasping breaths. The fever that brightened his sallow cheeks to scarlet as if he'd been riding in the brilliant Peninsular sun. And then the long, slow, agonizing descent into death. Numb terror chased off the dull ache that had inhabited her breast since her break with Evan, and perched there, triumphant.
She scarcely remembered returning home, could not recall what she said to Brent or to Natalie, who awaited them. All she knew was sometime later she was instructing the hackney driver to carry her to Portman Square.
She shouldn't be going. What in heaven was she to say to Lady Cheverley, to his betrothed Miss Marlowe?
Yet she knew no power on earth, not raised eyebrows or shocked faces or the speculation so unprecedented a call would doubtless excite among any who heard of it, could keep her away.
Then she was in the entry addressing the butler, asking for Lady Cheverley. "I imagine she's not receiving, as Mr. Blakesly told me her son has just been brought home wounded. I...I have much experience as a battlefield nurse and wished to offer whatever counsel I might to assist her."
Would his mama consent to see her? Emily didn't think she could bear it were the lady to refuse. She had to know more of Evan's condition, had to know what had been done and what treatment the physician proposed. Evan would never be hers, would recover to marry another, but recover he must. She could not let him die like Andrew.
To her vast relief, Lady Cheverley, her pale face anxious, her hands clutching a twisted linen handkerchief, joined her soon after.
"Lady Auriana! Billingsly said you—you knew about my son?"
"Yes. I'm sorry to burst in upon you unannounced, but when Mr. Blakesly told me of Lord Cheverley's injuries I knew you must be most distressed. I understand he was brought directly from abroad after his—his injury."
Lady Cheverley was staring at her, jaw dropped. Emily knew what a looby she must appear, but could not seem to summon any of the usual pleasantries. Instead, she blurted out, "The care given in the early days is crucial to proper healing. Did a doctor treat him on the packet?''
"I cannot say." Recalling her son's injuries apparently wiped out all other thought, for Lady Cheverley replied as if conversing with a caller about the treatment of wounds was a commonplace occurrence. "He's swathed in dirty linen—I—I wasn't sure whether to have it removed or not, he's th-thrashing about so dreadfully. Of all times, our physician is out of London until morning, and I know no other I really trust. But perhaps I should call someone, any-one____
A small gasping sob escaped her. "He's so ill, and I don't know what to do! Your message said you had nursing experience. If you have any suggestions, I should be endlessly grateful. He doesn't even..." She pressed her lips together, her voice dying to a whisper. "He doesn't even recognize me.
