The Forbidden Lord (10 page)

Flashing Lord St. Clair and Mr. Pollock a helpless look, Emily handed each of them a glass, then went off with her “mother.” As soon as they left the men’s hearing, she whispered, “Do you think Lord St. Clair is the one?”

“Quite possibly, but we’ll find out soon enough. Now that he knows Sophie is at home alone tomorrow, he may attempt to visit her in private. That would be a certain sign of his guilt.”

“How will you keep him from discovering she’s not there?”

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear. The servants know what to say. Besides, Randolph will contrive to be home. He’ll thwart Lord St. Clair if he attempts anything drastic.” She glanced back to where the two men were still standing. “What about Mr. Pollock? Do you suspect him as well?”

“I’m not sure. He did say something odd, however, about Uncle Ran—I-I mean, Lord Nesfield’s warning him away from Sophie.”

Lady Dundee grinned at her. “I see you’re falling into your role very well.”

Emily blushed. “I suppose. But sometimes I hate her.”

“Her?”

“Lady Emma.” They entered the foyer, and Em
ily glanced around to see who might be listening, but the place was empty. “I hate her for being rich and a flirt and making all the men like her.” She thought of Jordan’s change in behavior toward her tonight, and added fervently, “They wouldn’t act that way around Emily Fairchild. They wouldn’t give her a second thought.”

“Don’t be silly—they
are
acting that way around Emily Fairchild. This is a masquerade, not a spirit possession. Both women are you. Why, you couldn’t be Lady Emma so convincingly if her personality weren’t latent in you.” She brushed back one of Emily’s wayward curls in another of those motherly gestures Emily had come to like. “Now tell me honestly, did you hate your masquerade so very much?”

She ducked her head, almost too ashamed to answer. “No. But that’s what’s so awful. I
should
have hated it.”

“‘Should have.’ ‘Ought to have.’ Those are words for people without minds of their own. Thankfully, you’re not one of those.” The countess smiled and added, “There’s no shame in enjoying oneself, you know. Life is meant to be fun.”

Life is meant to be fun
, Emily thought as Lady Dundee went off to request their wraps and order their carriage. No one had ever said
that
to her before. Her parents had spoken of fulfilling one’s duties without complaint or of giving something useful to the world. They’d even spoken of the importance of finding love. But no one had ever mentioned fun.

What a novel concept.

“Leaving already, Lady Emma?” said a smooth voice behind her.

Emily froze. Why must Jordan continue to plague her? Or was this God’s way of punishing
her for daring to enjoy her masquerade?

Pasting a cool smile on her lips, she faced him. “Yes. The evening has grown tedious, I’m afraid.”

“I was hoping we could have another dance.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps another walk in the garden.”

His gaze caught hers, fathomless, intense…tempting. Her heart did a quick somersault. Curse him! He shouldn’t affect her like this! “Surely you have better things to do than dance with me—ladybirds to seduce, young girls to ignore, matrons to shock.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I see someone’s spreading nasty rumors about me. I wonder who it might be. Pollock? Or those pups gamboling about you all night, making fools of themselves?”

“If I didn’t know better,” she said sweetly, “I’d think you were jealous.”

A thunderous scowl darkened his face. “Not jealous—curious. Are you hiding behind those popinjays because you can’t handle more challenging company?”

“Like yours, you mean?” She fought down the butterflies that his all-seeing glances scared up. “I’m perfectly capable of handling the likes of you. I think I made that clear earlier in the garden.”

She regretted the words the instant she said them, for his body went hard, his lips curved upward in a smile, and the look on his face would have tempted a nun.

His gaze was a whisper of seduction, so clear she could swear everyone in the room could hear it. When he stepped close enough for her to smell the male scent of him, she had to stiffen every muscle to keep from backing away.

He spoke softly, huskily. “The only thing you made clear in the garden is that you and I should
dance your particular variation on the waltz more often.”

Her mouth went dry. Her particular variation on the waltz would no doubt lead to
his
particular variation if she ever allowed him to get her alone again. And she suspected that his variation would be a great deal more naughty than hers.

Thankfully, Lady Dundee returned just then. “I don’t know what’s wrong with servants these days. I swear they can’t—Oh, hello.” She halted beside Emily, her gaze narrowing on Jordan. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, sir.”

Emily performed the introductions quickly, eager to be away from him.

“I see Lady Emma gets her looks from you.” He took Lady Dundee’s plump hand and pressed a gallant kiss to it.

Goodness gracious. Was he hinting that Emily was an impostor? Or merely paying Lady Dundee the usual facile compliments?

Whatever the case, he’d met his match in Lady Dundee. “Of course she does,” she said smoothly, as if she weren’t speaking the most blatant lie in Christendom. “The shape of her brows, the elegant nose…it all came from my line, though she resembles her father, too. The Campbell mouth, you know.”

Emily barely smothered a laugh when Jordan actually searched her features as if to confirm Lady Dundee’s words.

“I must say, Blackmore,” Lady Dundee continued, “that you’ve given the lie to what I heard about you. I was told you never flattered young women and their mamas. I was even told that you preferred a more…experienced sort of woman.”

He shook his head in mock disappointment. “All these unfounded rumors. As someone once told
me, it’s not right for people to malign a man when he’s not there to defend himself.” He cast her a taunting smile. “Don’t you agree, Lady Emma?”

Dear heavens, she’d said those very words to him when they were in the carriage together!

“Besides,” he went on smugly, “I wouldn’t think of treating you and your lovely daughter so abominably, Lady Dundee. Lady Emma is the most
original
woman I’ve met in a long time.”

So original she’s invented
, his gloating smile said. Emily pretended not to catch his meaning.

Lady Dundee evidently missed it entirely. “Yes, my daughter is quite original. All the men think so. Even before her coming out, I had to send several unsuitable young men in Scotland packing.”

Her unwitting reference to the very suitors Emily had mentioned earlier wiped the smile off Jordan’s mouth. “Did you really? I’m not surprised. Lady Emma has a talent for attracting unsuitable men.”

Lady Dundee tapped her foot with impatience. “My brother would say that
you’re
unsuitable, Lord Blackmore. I believe he disapproves of your politics.”

“Your brother disapproves of everything about me. But your brother is a fool.”

The blatant insult astonished Emily. She glanced at Lady Dundee, who surprised her by laughing. “Indeed he is. Always has been. How good of you to notice.”

Just then, the footman announced that their carriage had come.

Lady Dundee drew her cloak more closely about her. “A pity I can’t stay and hear more of your intriguing opinions, but we really must leave. Come, Emma.”

She headed off for the entrance, but before Emily could follow, Jordan caught her arm. Bending his
head, he whispered, “We’ll continue our discussion when your protector is not around.”

Protector, not mother. She glared at him, then regretted it. Looking at him was always a mistake. A man that handsome should be locked away from virgins.

Fixing his gaze on her, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips. When he pressed a kiss to the back of it, a shock of awareness sizzled up her arm and exploded over her like Chinese fireworks.

“You and I aren’t finished,” he whispered meaningfully.

“Dear me, I’m all aquiver with anticipation,” she snapped as she jerked her hand free, then whirled away to follow Lady Dundee.

Jordan watched her go, every muscle straining to keep from rushing after her and shaking her senseless. She had to be Emily Fairchild. No matter what any of them said, she could
not
be this Lady Emma creature.

This alluring, infuriating, Lady Emma creature.

As Emily Fairchild, she’d tempted him with sweetness. As Lady Emma, however…What would taking her to bed be like? He imagined tracing each line and curve of her shapely limbs with his mouth, taking down her hair with its cloud of lavender scent and rubbing the gossamer strands between his fingers, filling his palms with her lovely ripe breasts—

Sweet God in heaven, he was hard again. No woman had ever made him lose control like this, and he’d made love to the best courtesans—the most famous, the most beautiful. Those women had satisfied his needs, but he’d never burned for them this intensely, not before, not after. He was sweating buckets merely thinking about having Emily’s body beneath his, her legs spread in wel
come, her skin hot to the touch as she cried his name at the height of her release.

With a curse, he strode up to the footman and ordered that his carriage be brought. Devil take her lovely face and quick mind and this strange masquerade. Was she Emily or not?

She
had
to be Emily—no other woman had ever affected him like this. She was Emily and she was lying, and he would prove it somehow.

His carriage arrived and he leapt in, his mind already awhirl with strategies as Watkins began the short drive home. As soon as he arrived at his town house, he commanded a footman to fetch Hargraves to his study at once. When the butler entered a few minutes later, Jordan was crouched on the floor, searching through the papers piled under his desk.

“My lord?” Hargraves exclaimed, peering around the desk with alarm in his expression. “Is something amiss?”

“Didn’t I receive an invitation to the Astramont breakfast a few weeks ago?” Jordan tossed aside a gilded envelope and picked up another.

“Of course. It’s in the pile with the rest of the discards. Lady Astramont always invites you. And you always refuse. This year was no exception.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” At Hargraves’s silence, Jordan glanced up to find his butler gawking at him. “Well? Surely the flighty creature won’t mind if I accept at the last minute.”

“Mind? After she receives your acceptance, her ladyship will probably spend the intervening hours in joyful contemplation of the good chance that led you to decide to grace her home for the first time in a decade.”

Jordan laughed. Hargraves always managed to cheer him.

Hargraves cleared his throat. “Um, milord. May I ask
why
your lordship has decided to attend the viscountess’s affair?”

The Astramont invitation suddenly surfaced, its chicken-scratch script reminding him of how very much Lady Astramont irritated him. She was an effusive, bird-witted twit with the dullest guests imaginable.

But he would be at her breakfast. Jordan rose and brushed off his dusty hands, then threw the invitation atop his desk. “Someone I met tonight is planning to attend.” He had Ian to thank for that piece of information. “I suspect she’ll not be as glad to see me as Lady Astramont, however.” Until he discovered the truth about this Emily/Lady Emma woman, he would dog her steps, unsettling her at every opportunity.

He studied the invitation, then groaned. “Two
P.M
.? Whoever heard of serving breakfast at that ridiculous hour?”

“If I may interject, my lord, that isn’t unusual for these breakfast affairs.”

“I’m sure you’re right. But I can accomplish mounds of work by the time these women begin breakfast. Very well. Two
P.M
. it is. Send a message over in the morning.”

Now that the matter was settled, he leaned against the desk and surveyed his servant. Hargraves’s duties extended far beyond those of the average butler. It was Hargraves who’d kept an eye on Jordan’s stepsister when she’d still lived here, and Hargraves who’d found someone to protect her on her disastrous trip to New South Wales. The man also had a knack for using the servants’ gossip network to find out information useful to Jordan at Parliament and elsewhere.

“Hargraves, do you ever speak with any of Lord Nesfield’s servants?”

“No, my lord; that lot keeps pretty much to themselves. But that’s not to say I couldn’t. I believe their coachman is courting the parlormaid at Langley House, and she’s the sister of our own Mary’s husband.”

Jordan squelched a smile. “I see. And does all of that mean you could get an introduction to the Nesfield coachman if needed?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

“Good. I want you to find something out for me.”

“Certainly, milord. If the coachman will not tell me what you need to know, I’ll find another avenue.”

That was what Jordan liked about his stalwart butler—the man was determined and devious. His small frame and servile manner took everyone off their guard, and his surprising ability to drink anyone under the table had resulted in more than one valuable piece of information for Jordan. Even better, he never asked questions of his employer. He took his orders, then set out to do the job with a thorough attention to detail. The man should have been a Bow Street Runner.

But Hargraves was better than any Bow Street Runner, because his best quality was discretion. In this instance, discretion was something Jordan valued highly.

“Here’s the situation, Hargraves.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s this young woman…”

O
phelia settled her ample body on the settee across from Randolph’s chair, then slipped her aching foot out of her slipper and propped it on a horsehair footstool. She was certainly paying for so many hours on her feet last night. And now her brother was on the rampage. It was too much to be borne.

“Well?” Randolph groused. “Where is the blasted chit?”

“She’ll be down shortly, I’m sure.” Ophelia yawned. “You must give the girl time to sleep, or she won’t suit your purpose.”

“As if she suits my purpose
now
. I still have not heard what happened at the ball. Is that why you sent her right up to bed last night, even though I told her to report to me at once? Were you protecting her because you knew she had not discovered anything?”

“I sent her up to bed because she was dead on her feet.”

“After one trifling ball that ended barely after midnight?”

“No. After dancing lessons and a full day of shopping for accessories and
then
a ball during which she danced every dance.”

“At my expense, too.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to rub her foot. “If you didn’t want to do this right, you should’ve told me. I would’ve dressed her in sackcloth and ashes and stuck her in a corner at every event.”

Randolph’s sole response was to scowl. He never had appreciated her particular sense of humor. “Well, the girl had best have something to tell me when she comes down. I shall not keep up this entertainment for her if she cannot produce anything.”

“Entertainment?” Ophelia’s short bark of laughter sounded loud in the early-morning quiet of the town house. “She seems to consider it torture.” When Randolph looked at her with narrowed eyes, she added very deliberately, “I can’t imagine why, though. If she didn’t want to come, all she had to do was say so. Am I right?”

He jerked his gaze from hers, his mouth puckering sourly.

Time for a more direct approach. “Randolph, what did you tell Emily to make her agree to your plan? Clearly, she finds this scheme distasteful. You should have seen her after the ball last night. She was skittish as a mouse in a cat’s paw.”

“Did she behave like that at the ball, too? That is not what we agreed upon, you know. I wanted her to—”

“Randolph! Silence your wagging tongue for a moment, will you?” He glowered at her, but thankfully kept quiet. “You needn’t worry about Emily.
During the ball, she was as bold and impudent as you could wish. She had every man in the place eating out of her pretty hand and thinking her the most ‘original’ creature alive.”

“Then why was she skittish?”

“Because she obviously found the experience taxing and intimidating.”

Ophelia was certain that Emily’s encounter with Blackmore had been partly responsible for the girl’s somber mood on the way home, though Randolph needn’t know that just yet. She’d prodded Emily to reveal what had happened between her and that rapscallion, but the girl had evaded her questions.

There was something going on there; Ophelia would stake her life on it. And that was trouble indeed. From what she’d heard, Blackmore would chew up a little thing like Emily and spit her out. Ophelia didn’t wish to see that, for she was growing very fond of the child.

“As for my original question,” she continued, refusing to let Randolph draw her away from her immediate concern, “why is she willing to help Sophie at the expense of her own integrity? What hold do you have over poor Emily?”

“Hold?!!” He puffed himself up like an adder. “Hold, indeed. Her father owes his livelihood to me. That is all the hold I have over her.” Casting her a sidelong glance, he added, “Besides, I am sure you have already asked the girl that very question, since you like to stick your nose where it does not belong. What does
she
say?”

His question told her at once that he was hiding something. “She won’t tell me anything, as I’m sure you know. Thanks to you, she doesn’t trust either of us.”

Looking relieved, he stood and limped over to
the fireplace. “Nonsense. She knows her duty, that’s all.”

Ophelia sighed. She ought to press the matter further. But she’d learned long ago that if she forced Randolph into a corner, he would risk the bite of the deadliest snake before he’d tell her anything. And Randolph already had quite enough venom coursing through his veins.

But she could work on the girl. Emily didn’t like lying, that much was clear. If only Ophelia could gain her trust…

As if conjured up by the thought, Emily herself entered, already dressed for the breakfast at Lady Astramont’s. With approval, Ophelia noted the girl’s choice of the rose corded cambric. Emily had a natural sense of style that made everything so much easier.

With a quick glance at Randolph, who was staring into the fire with his back to the door, Emily crossed to Ophelia and handed her a cheesecloth bag.

“This is for your foot,” she said in a low voice. “Mix these herbs with hot water. They make an excellent soak for sore feet.”

Ophelia took the bag with a smile. “Thank you, my dear. It’s very kind of you to make it up for me.”

Randolph whirled around. “What? What are you two about?”

Quickly Ophelia hid the cheesecloth bag in her skirts. For some reason Randolph didn’t approve of Emily’s ministrations, although anyone could see the girl had a talent for physic. “She’s saying good morning, you fool. What do you think?”

“It’s about time you showed up,” he growled at Emily. “Kept me waiting all night, you did. Sit down. I want a full account of the ball.”

Emily settled carefully on the edge of a wing-backed chair to keep from mussing her gown. “How much has Lady Dundee told you?”

“Nothing at all, blast her. Who danced with you? Did anyone ask for Sophie?”

“Let me see. I danced with Mr. Pollock, Lord St. Clair, Lord Wilkins, Lord Radcliffe, Lord Blakely, and Mr. Wallace.”

How odd that she didn’t mention Blackmore, Ophelia thought. Hadn’t she danced with the earl, too? Ophelia wasn’t entirely certain.

“All of them expressed their condolences for Sophie’s illness,” Emily went on, “but only Lord St. Clair and Mr. Pollock seemed overly interested. Both of them asked repeatedly when Sophie would be attending social events again. And as you know, Lord St. Clair called on her yesterday.”

“Yes, I know about that. And I do find it curious. St. Clair is something of a mystery. I heard he was estranged from his father for some secret reason that no one will discuss. He left England for several years, and no one knows why. He only returned last year. But I’ve heard the most dreadful stories of what he did while he was on the continent…”

And of course, Ophelia thought, Randolph believed every word. His own son had run off to the continent, so he was suspicious of any other young man who’d done the same.

Randolph began to pace, stabbing his cane into the Aubusson carpet every few steps. “Anyway, he and I had a bit of a talk once, and I told him that rumor had it he was not fit to marry any young woman. I let him know that I would not countenance any union between him and my daughter. You know what the impudent scoundrel had the audacity to say? That Sophie was the only person whose opinion he cared about.” He snorted. “As if
a girl of that age knows what she wants. A pretty lad—that is all a girl of eighteen looks for.”

“That’s not true,” Emily retorted. “I think your daughter has more sense than to choose a man simply because he has nice features.”

Ophelia wasn’t so sure herself, but said nothing on that score. She didn’t know her niece that well. “We set a trap for St. Clair,” Ophelia told Randolph. “We told him we’d be at the breakfast and that Sophie would be here alone. If he comes here—”

“If he comes here,” Randolph put in, “I shall be on the lookout. We will see how he acts and if he goes snooping about the house without permission. That would certainly tell us he was the one.”

“Do try to control yourself,” Ophelia cautioned. “We mustn’t scare away the prey or show our hand prematurely. If word of what happened to Sophie leaks out because you approach some man too soon, it’ll ruin her chances in the future. St. Clair may behave quite innocently, in which case you mustn’t approach him.”

“I think I can be trusted to show caution.” Randolph halted his pacing, then peered through his lorgnette at Emily. “What about Pollock?”

“I’m not sure. He seemed only moderately interested.”

“Pollock has a fortune, but is merely a mister,” Randolph said. “He knows I would never accept the suit of any man with rank less than a viscount. Sophie deserves the best.”

Sophie deserved to be paddled soundly for putting them to all this trouble, Ophelia thought. Yet sometimes she almost sympathized with the girl. Having Randolph for a father couldn’t have been easy.

“What if one of these men really cared for her?”
Emily ventured. “What if Sophie were in love with one of them—”

“In love? Trust me, Miss Fairchild, love makes no difference. It soon vanishes, and then, if you have chosen the wrong partner, you find yourself unhappily yoked with someone who causes you only shame.”

Heavens, Ophelia realized, Randolph was alluding to his own disastrous marriage! Apparently fancying himself in love, he’d married a girl much beneath him who’d turned out to be a vulgar and outspoken little twit prone to embarrassing him with great frequency. She’d given him a son who’d been a constant disappointment. But she’d had the decency, in Randolph’s words, to die giving birth to Sophie, thus sparing Randolph a lifetime of mortification.

Unfortunately, with no one else around to garner Randolph’s attention once his heir ran off, Sophie had become the center of his domain, the only one he could control. It was killing him to have her out from under his thumb, which was why he was going to all this trouble.

“In any case,” Randolph blustered on, “what Sophie wants is immaterial. I know what is best for the girl. Neither Pollock nor St. Clair is acceptable. We must focus our attention on those two, since both are likely candidates. But was there no one else? No one who paid particular attention to you even if he said nothing of Sophie?”

When Emily colored, Ophelia waited for her to mention Blackmore. But the girl only murmured, “No one,” as she cast Ophelia a pleading look.

Ophelia debated keeping the girl’s secret. But that was pointless. Randolph would find out one way or the other about Blackmore’s interest in her, and there would be hell to pay if they had kept it
from him. Besides, Ophelia wanted to see how Emily would react to mention of the rapscallion.

“What about the Earl of Blackmore?” she said, acting as if she misunderstood Emily’s look. “He spoke to you at length before we left.”

As the color crept across Emily’s face until even her ears were red, Randolph pivoted to face the young woman.

“Blackmore?” Randolph punctuated the word with a loud rap of his cane. “That scoundrel approached you? How could you forget to mention him after what happened at the Drydens’ ball?”

Very interesting, Ophelia thought. “What happened at the Drydens’ ball, Randolph? Do tell.”

“The blackguard danced with my Sophie, that’s what. Him with his reputation, presuming to touch a pure girl like Sophie! It was an outrage, and I told him so when I wrested her away from him!”

Ophelia could easily imagine the awful scene her brother had made.

“Lord Blackmore spoke to me only briefly last night,” Emily protested. “And he didn’t even mention Sophie.”

“He wouldn’t,” Randolph growled. “That one is a fox, too clever by half. But he is a more likely candidate than the other two, I promise you.”

“Don’t be absurd, Randolph. Why would Blackmore try to elope with Sophie?” Blackmore most certainly had his eye on a particular young woman, but Ophelia would wager a king’s ransom it wasn’t her insipid niece. “The man’s no fortune hunter. Besides, he can have any heiress he wants merely by crooking his finger, so he needn’t endure your wrath for Sophie.”

Randolph leaned forward on his cane, his eyes lit with malevolence. “I’m not saying he had any intention of marrying her, mind you. His sort de
lights in debauching women as an amusement.”

“Oh, really, Randolph—” Ophelia began.

“You think I exaggerate. But he and I
are
enemies, and I humiliated him in front of all those people at the Drydens’ ball. He might have decided to humiliate me by ruining my daughter. It is exactly the sort of thing a scoundrel like him would do.”

Ophelia tried to imagine Blackmore being humiliated by her brother’s making an ass of himself at a ball. More likely, Blackmore had laughed his head off. “You really are insane, you know. If Blackmore had carried Sophie off, then refused to marry her, he would have blackened his name in good society for the rest of his life. No one would countenance such behavior. He’s never done anything of that sort, and I see no reason for him to begin it now.”

Randolph grew sullen at her appeal to logic. Ophelia marveled at his amazing irrationality regarding Sophie. Any fool knew Blackmore wouldn’t stoop to such petty vengeance.

Emily listened to the discussion with growing trepidation. She’d never considered Jordan a candidate for Sophie’s lover, but certain niggling memories now assailed her. His kisses when they were out in the carriage. His behavior toward Lady Emma in the garden. He claimed not to care for young innocents, but there were essentially three to whom he’d made advances, if she considered both her personas and Sophie.

And yet…those had all been instances of impulse, and in the case of Lady Emma, most assuredly provoked. Would he truly set out to defame a young woman? He hadn’t seemed the least concerned about Lord Nesfield’s behavior toward him at the Drydens’ ball.

She couldn’t believe he would ruin Sophie for
such poor reasons. Still, he might have tried to elope with her. After Lord Nesfield had shown his disapproval, Jordan might have thought elopement the only way to ensure his success with Sophie.

Even Jordan’s treatment of her last night could be interpreted that way. He’d been suspicious of her—perhaps because he feared a trap. Otherwise, why would he be so determined to unmask her? Why care if she was an impostor? And he
had
attended a marriage mart, which was certainly out of character. Had he been looking for Sophie?