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"My darling daughter, if you see this it will mean I never had the chance to speak these words myself. I haven't much time now, but still I hope that my agents combing Spain and Portugal will find you and bring you home. Please, God, that I might see your face again and meet my grandson before I die.
If that is not to be, let me tell you now what I should have long ago. I was wrong, Auriana. Wrong to give in to my wrath and threaten to banish you for marrying against my wishes. Wrong not to admit the mistake and beg you to come home after you ran away."
The words blurred and she had to wipe her eyes. She could hardly believe Papa, her stem unyielding Papa. was actually apologizing. Deep within the kernel of her decade-old anger, a child's simple unquestioning love stirred. She raised the parchment again.
"Your dear mama, God rest her gentle soul, tried to tell me so, but in my arrogance I would not heed her. I was so sure you would relent, that the hardships you would experience following the arum would kill your joy in that hasty marriage and bring you back to me.
But we are so alike, are we not, my child? I should have known you would hold fast to your husband with the same tenacity that made you jump my stallion when you were barely big enough to throw a leg on him. The courage that, despite the arm you broke when you tumbled off, made you refuse to be carried back and insist on walking in to tell me about it yourself.
I should have known, after forcing your mama to break off communication and refusing your letters, you would believe my anger fierce enough to send you into hiding after your husband's death.
Your absence now is the penance I pay. I can only hope that someday you will return and read this. Then you will know how much I loved and love you, how much I regret the years of privation my anger caused you. The years together of which I robbed us both.
I can make amends now for the first mistake only. And so I have, as you will discover if you but return.
Ah, my darling child..."
The note continued half a page longer, the characters so distorted she could no longer make them into words, then ended without a signature. Her father, she'd learned, had died a few hours after penning the note, nearly a year ago.
'Twas only then the realization struck her. All that time after Andrew's death as she evaded the agents tracking her—'twas not her father-in-law, intent on wresting away her son. No, it had been Papa, desiring reconciliation. Wishing to bring her back home to wealth and comfort, to acknowledge her before the world as his beloved daughter and her Drew as his grandson.
His beloved and extremely wealthy daughter, as it turned out. The lawyers had contacted her last week, advising her they were in the last stages of confirming she was indeed the missing Lady Auriana Emilie Spenser Weston, daughter of the late Duke of Suffolk and widow of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. Once they were sure, they would forward a letter held in trust for her from her father—as well as an extremely generous inheritance that would make her one of the wealthiest women in England.
She had to smile at that. Emily Spenser, who'd reused tea leaves and agonized whether she could afford the price of a theater ticket, was now to have at her unfettered disposal nearly forty thousand pounds a year. In addition. Papa had insisted the bequest be worded so that the sum was hers and hers alone, beyond the touch of any husband. “My daughter is capable of anything,'' he'd told the lawyer. "She can manage her own wealth."
Even before the letter in her hand arrived, rumors had begun to circulate. The modest trickle of cards inviting her to dinners and soirees had become a flood, hostesses all over London apparently deciding no entertainment was now complete without the presence of the most unusual—and now wealthiest—widow in London.
Ladies who had formerly avoided her now stood in line to chat her up—and asked baldly about her shop, a topic of conversation they would have considered anathema but a week previous. Just yesterday one such socially prominent caller had brought a gift that sent Natalie into raptures— vouchers to Almack's.
The Wednesday night assembly wasn't called the Marriage Mart for naught. Emily wondered, a half smile playing about her lips, which Patroness had a friend or relative with a son or brother, blue of blood but empty of purse, who'd clamored for the opportunity to lead Financial Salvation into a waltz.
How amused Papa would have been by it all. A deep sadness welled up at the thought.
'Twas not Papa's fault alone their break had never been bridged. Stubborn herself as he had always been, she'd not been able to bring herself to come home and beg forgiveness.
Tenderly she folded the letter. Drew was too young for it to mean much now, but when he was older, he, too, would be warmed by knowledge of the love of the tyrannical grandfather he'd never met.
Another bittersweet thought occurred. Papa had died only a year ago, just before she'd secretly returned to London. What difference would it have made had he found her before that? If instead of lurking at the fringes of the ton, she had been acknowledged and presented as the Duke's daughter? If she'd met Evan for the first time as his equal, a woman worthy of his hand?
'Twas far too late to waste time on such speculation. Or was it?
Her newfound wealth and acceptance did not confuse her nearly as much as the unexpected visit she'd received yesterday from Miss Andrea Marlowe.
Emily had been at her design office working on sketches when Francesca ran up to announce the caller. Having not seen Evan's betrothed since the night she'd spent at his bedside, she'd forgotten to construct a plausible story to explain her abnormally intense interest in the wounded son of a mere acquaintance.
However, the young lady followed so directly on the maid's heels that Emily, her head full of line, color and fabric, had no time to fabricate one now.
Wondering uneasily what the young lady wished to discuss that would have brought her to so ungenteel a meeting place, Emily politely offered tea.
'"Tis kind of you, but I don't wish to disturb your work. I, for one, think it marvelous that you have a talent and pursue it. Your designs are so original and clever, and Lady Cheverley thinks so highly of you. In fact, if it would not inconvenience you terribly, I should very much like to see your sketches."
Though surprised, Emily could not help but feel gratified as well. Miss Marlowe's voice rang of sincerity and she seemed genuinely interested in the designs.
"Certainly. I was about to stop for a dish of tea, and would be happy to have you join me."
"In that case, I should be delighted."
After another ten minutes spent inspecting her sketchbooks, Miss Marlowe both exclaiming with enthusiasm and asking quite intelligent questions, Emily's wariness dissipated a bit.
Even had it not, she told herself as she led Miss Marlowe across the hall to the little parlor where Francesca had set out tea, after the service the young lady had done her in alleviating her anxiety about Evan's injuries, she owed her every courtesy.
They were seated over their cups, Miss Marlowe having petitioned Emily's opinion about the colors that might best become her, when the girl asked, "Would you design a gown for my wedding?"
Emily choked on her tea. It had been all too easy, after their interlude as coconspirators and this animated discussion about design, to forget who this girl was.
Get hold, she told herself brusquely. Miss Marlowe would be just another paying customer. Besides, who more than Evan deserved to find on his wedding day a bride gowned as best enhanced her beauty, aglow with love and eagerness?
As Miss Marlowe was certainly glowing at this moment. And why not, with Evan to be her groom?
Emily took another sip and swallowed slowly, allowing herself time to calm. "I should be honored," she heard herself saying.
If she repeated the phrase often enough, by the time the gown was complete she might believe it.
"I must warn you, I shall need the dress almost immediately. I wish to be married the very day after the second reading of the banns."
The news distracted her. Why the sudden haste? Or perhaps she knew why. Perhaps Miss Marlowe had chosen Madame Emilie not so much for her design skills as to emphasize she would soon make permanent a bond that would place Evan forever out of reach, even for angels of mercy.
"He has recovered, then?" Emily asked, voicing the immediate worry that popped into mind.
"Oh, yes. The arm will always pain him, of course, but he's been back to his usual pursuits for some months now. He even rides beautifully."
"Rides?"
"Um. I was thinking of something in blue. He'll wear his uniform, of course, and I shouldn't wish to compete with the red. Did we not agree that cerulean might suit?"
"U-uniform?" Emily stuttered. Had the mission he'd undertaken for the ministry conveyed some military title upon him?
Miss Marlowe grew very still. "Oh, my dear Lady Auriana. Did you not read the announcement in the Post?"
"What announcement?"
To her total bewilderment Miss Marlowe sprang up and hugged her fiercely. "I am so sorry! What a wretch you must think me. Let me tell you straightaway that I ended my engagement with Evan a week ago. I've fallen in love with a young soldier, you see, and we will be married just as soon as can be arranged."
Married. But not to Evan. Emily couldn't seem to summon either coherent thought or polite reply.
Miss Marlowe poured her another dish of tea. "I wish I had something stronger to offer, but you should at least take this. Now, let me tell you what happened."
