The Forbidden Lord (12 page)

When the silence stretched out and became awkward, Pollock suddenly said, “Lady Emma, would you take a turn with me about the garden? I don’t believe you’ve seen Lady Astramont’s roses yet.”

Dragging her gaze from Jordan, she cast Pollock a smile. “I certainly haven’t. I’d be pleased indeed if you would show them to me.”

Pollock offered his arm and she clasped it eagerly, glad to escape Jordan’s dark looks and bitter opinions. But as they walked away, Jordan called out, “Lady Emma?”

She halted and turned her head to look at him. “Yes?”

“After you’re done with Pollock, I want a word with you.”

He said it as if there was no question of her agreeing. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and they clearly expected the same. After all, he was quite an eligible catch. If he wanted a word with her, she was expected to drop all other amusements to indulge him.

But she knew what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to trick her into revealing the truth, especially now that she’d roused his fury by criticizing him. She daren’t allow that.

“I’m afraid that will be impossible, Lord Blackmore. I promised Mama that we could leave as soon as she finished seeing Lady Astramont’s house, and she must be nearly done. I’m sure she’ll meet up with us while we are in the gardens.”

An angry flush darkened his handsome face. Being refused anything by a woman was clearly as unfamiliar to him as taking tea on the moon. Well,
too bad. As long as he couldn’t be certain she was Emily Fairchild, he wouldn’t dare to expose her.

“Another time perhaps,” he clipped out.

“Yes, another time.” Feeling more sure of herself, she walked off with Pollock.

Another time, indeed. If she had her way, it would come when pigs flew and fish took ferries, and not a minute sooner.

M
inutes later, Jordan stormed out of Lady Astramont’s after taking quick leave of his hostess. How dare Lady Emma rebuff him before a crowd of people!

He leapt into his carriage and ordered Watkins to drive to his club, her words still burning his ears.
Then your life must be dreary indeed
. The little chit had actually pitied him! Him! The Earl of Blackmore! A man who’d accomplished more in his lifetime than a dozen noblemen!

Just because he didn’t wander the streets in a perpetual state of infatuation like that fool Pollock didn’t mean his life was hollow and meaningless. No, indeed. He was respected, envied even, by all who knew him.

Perhaps he did go to bed alone most nights. And there was the occasional time—more often, now that his stepsister had moved out—when his house
felt like a pharaoh’s rich and cavernous tomb. Sometimes life worked out that way. Chasing after love’s dubious promises only brought disappointment, as he’d learned very young. If one allowed oneself to crave affection and happiness and to hope for more than simple contentment, one suffered pain. It was a fact of life.

Yet her voice still troubled his thoughts.
Life is worth nothing without such luxuries
.

As if a woman her age knew anything about life! He snorted as he gazed out the window at the dingy dusk laying a gray, unforgiving cast over every muddy walkway, especially in this part of London. An aging strawberry seller trudged silently homeward, tugging a cart of half-sold berries with bare, chapped hands. Farther along, a whore stood under the oil lamp seeking companions before the sun had even hidden its face.

Though he’d been raised with wealth and privilege, he’d seen a great many such sights, especially once his reformer stepmother had married his father. Indeed, sometimes he felt guilty that he’d escaped such penury. Anyone who did escape it should feel fortunate enough, without asking for more.

Yes, love was a luxury, more so than Emily…Lady Emma…
whoever
she was…could ever know. Until Nesfield and Lady Dundee had dressed her up and set her on display, she’d never even left the country. What did she know of love’s fickle nature, the way some people held out a promise of it, then snatched it away?

He curled his fingers into fists. She was a babe in the woods with her teasing and flirting and lofty statements about life. She thought that because she wore satin gowns and spoke eloquently, because her companions lapped up her every fanciful word,
she could say what she pleased and act irresponsibly.

Well, she was wrong. Such behavior would bring her a great deal of attention in the worst quarters. If she weren’t careful, men would treat her as some fast-and-loose sort, and she’d be in deep trouble.

If she were Lady Emma, she would find herself compromised by some fortune hunter. And if she were Emily in masquerade? He scowled. Nesfield wouldn’t help her one whit if she got herself into trouble. Jordan couldn’t fathom what Nesfield was about—or Lady Dundee, for that matter, who’d seemed to be an intelligent woman—but it was obvious the man hadn’t created this masquerade to help Emily. Nesfield would merely take what he wanted from her, and leave her with nothing. So whatever she planned to achieve was doomed to failure, no matter what she thought.

Ah, they’d reached Brook’s at last. He left the carriage and hurried inside. Brook’s was the favorite gentlemen’s club of many Whig members of Parliament and almost as old as its predominantly Tory counterpart, White’s, across the street. Its sedate atmosphere and stodgy décor generally soothed his temper immediately.

Not today, however. He didn’t understand it. Here, among his sensible peers, he ought to be able to relax. There were none of Astramont’s silly tittering females around, with their talk of fairies and romantic feeling.

But there was also no Lady Emma. She was back at Lady Astramont’s, with Pollock. Pollock was the one brushing against her, smelling her lavender scent, listening to her melodic voice. Deuce take the man! And deuce take her, too. How dare she choose Pollock? Of course she’d done it to evade Jordan’s interrogations. It had to be. Still, whether
she were Lady Emma or Emily, no one else had the right to her but him, and he’d make Pollock understand that the next time he saw the devil.

The servant took his greatcoat, informing him in respectful tones that Lord St. Clair awaited him in the Subscription Room. He muttered a curse. He’d forgotten all about his appointment with Ian.

When he entered the Subscription Room it took a few moments to find the viscount through the haze of tobacco smoke, but at last he spotted him in a corner. Ian lounged in a chair beneath a sconce, with a pipe in one hand and his pocket watch in the other. He glanced up and saw Jordan, then tapped the face of his watch as Jordan approached.

Jordan settled into the armchair opposite him and grumbled, “I’m here, Ian. You can put away the watch and the incredulous look.”

With a grin, Ian snapped the watch cover crisply shut, then restored it to his waistcoat. “That’s twice now, Jordan. Since you’re never late, I can only assume this is the early onset of senility. If you’re not careful, you’ll soon be doddering about with unlaced boots and talking to yourself.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure. Last night was Pollock’s fault. Tonight, I simply forgot. It happens, you know, even to me. I’ve a great deal on my mind these days.”

“Lady Emma perhaps?” When Jordan scowled at him, he added, “You said you were planning to attend Lady Astramont’s breakfast, but I really didn’t think you would. You find her as annoying as the rest of us.”

Jordan took a cheroot from the gold case sitting on the table between them with its array of the
Times
and other papers. He lit it, then drew the soothing smoke into his lungs. “Yes, but Emily
Fairchild was there. And I told you, I’ll do what I must to prove she’s an impostor.”

Drawing deep on his pipe, Ian shrugged. “Why not just write to Miss Fairchild’s father and ask where she’s staying in London? If he gives you Nesfield’s town-house address, then you know Lady Emma and Miss Fairchild are one and the same.”

“I already thought of that, but I doubt it would do any good. Her father would have to be part of the scheme, or else why would he have let her come? Besides, the minute a letter arrives from me, questions will be raised about how Emily knows the Earl of Blackmore. You know how those country towns are: nothing but gossip.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because I was almost caught having a tête-à-tête with her in a carriage a couple of months ago.”

“You in a carriage with a complete innocent?” Ian tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. “You really are entering senility. How the bloody hell did
that
happen?”

A business acquaintance approached from behind Ian, looking as if he might speak to them, but Jordan’s patented scowl made the man redirect his steps in a hurry. Then Jordan told Ian what had happened that night, leaving out the kisses, of course. “So you see, it wasn’t either of our faults, and we got out of it fairly well. But a letter from me would make people wonder about the night we were thought to be together. And if by some chance I’m wrong about Emily—”

“Ah, so you admit you could be wrong. You saw her by moonlight, for God’s sake.”

“I know.” Jordan puffed hard on the cheroot. And Lady Emma had described Castle Dundee in such loving detail. Yet there was something about
her…“I don’t think I am. But I can’t take any chances. If Lady Emma isn’t Miss Fairchild, I wouldn’t want to ruin the latter woman’s reputation. The Miss Fairchild I met didn’t deserve to be gossiped about.”

“There may be another, perfectly logical reason for Lady Emma’s resemblance to your friend Miss Fairchild.”

“Oh?”

“Lady Dundee is originally from the same area, is she not?”

“Yes. The Nesfield seat is in Derbyshire. I imagine the countess spent her childhood there before she married.”

“Then she and the Fairchilds may be distant relations. Plenty of second sons go into the clergy. Perhaps Mr. Fairchild is Nesfield’s cousin or something. That may even be why he was given the living.”

Jordan drummed his fingers on the carved oak arm of the chair. He hadn’t considered that. An uneasy knot formed in his belly. What if all this time he’d been tormenting the woman for no good reason? Though both women shared similar features and spoke their minds, Lady Emma did differ markedly from Emily. Her coy flirtations bore no resemblance to Emily’s moralizing. And the way she kissed…

Good God. He could be completely wrong. And that changed everything.

“If you want to know for certain,” Ian continued, “why not go to Derbyshire?”

“I fear that wouldn’t be any less discreet. But I could send Hargraves, if he can’t find anything out from Nesfield’s servants.”

A dark look passed over Ian’s face. “I don’t
know how much luck you’ll have there, even with Hargraves tackling the task.”

“Why not?”

“While you were at the breakfast, I went to Nesfield’s town house, hoping to speak to Lady Sophie. But the servants very politely rebuffed me, saying she was too sick for visitors. Don’t you find it odd that she should be ill so long?”

Jordan blew out a puff of smoke. “Not necessarily. If ever a young woman was prone to illness, it’s Lady Sophie.”

“True, but I think it’s her bloody father’s fault. I suspect that if she escaped his iron thumb, she’d be fine. Unfortunately, I have to go through Nesfield to get to her.”

Jordan cast his friend a covert glance. This new preoccupation of Ian’s with marrying was beginning to disturb him. “I’m sure she’ll be well in a few days, and you’ll find a way around her father’s objections.”

“I’m counting on Lady Emma to aid me with that.”

“Lady Emma?”

“If I can speak to her alone. But for that I need your help.”

Jordan regarded his friend thoughtfully. “I’ll be glad to help. As long as you help me speak to her alone as well.”

Ian scowled. “See here, if you’re planning to browbeat the girl—”

“I won’t browbeat her. I merely want to ask her some questions.”

“I can well imagine,” Ian said with a snort.

“I won’t do it any other way.”

With a sigh, Ian set his pipe aside. “You’re really interested in her, aren’t you?”

Lady Emma/Emily consumed his thoughts, be
deviled his sleep, and made him behave like a slobbering dog in a butcher shop. No woman had ever blown him off the carefully plotted course of his life before.

Jordan glanced away. “I’m interested in determining the truth, that’s all.”

“I take it your sally into the dark caves of Astramont proved pointless?”

“You could say that.”

“You couldn’t draw near your prey? Or when you did, she proved too wily for you?” The mocking way he said “wily” made Jordan bristle.

“The girl evaded my questions, if that’s what you mean,” Jordan snapped. “If you’re dying to know everything that happened, ask Pollock. He was there, too.”

“Pollock witnessed this great contretemps? This grows more interesting by the minute. Perhaps I’ll have Pollock help me with Lady Emma instead.”

Jordan spoke without thinking. “If you do, I swear I’ll hang that preening popinjay with one of his own ridiculous cravats!”

Ian broke into a grin. “By God, you’re jealous!”

“Jealous! Of that dandy? Don’t be absurd!”

But when Ian’s grin widened, Jordan busied himself with stubbing out his cheroot and hunting in the case for another. He wasn’t jealous. It merely disturbed him to think of an exquisite creature like Lady Emma with an idiot like Pollock. Unfortunately, thanks to his own fit of temper, she was probably strolling through the extensive Astramont gardens with Pollock at this very moment.

What if she truly were some laird’s daughter looking for a husband? Could she possibly think Pollock would suit her, a man whose idea of entertainment was to drive about town in his phaeton showing off his newest gaudy waistcoat?

And what if Pollock got her alone? What if the fop were treated to the same kind of kiss she’d given Jordan the other night?

A red haze filled his vision. To think of her standing under a cherry tree in Pollock’s arms, teasing the man to kiss her, to caress her, to—

Devil take it, he should never have left her with that fool! Pollock could be quite smooth-tongued when he wanted to impress a woman, and judging from the leers the bastard had cast her at Lady Astramont’s, Lady Emma was exactly the sort of woman Pollock would want to impress.

Well, if she took up with Pollock, she’d regret it. Jordan snatched up his second cheroot and lit it with a snarl. He would show her how vain and pompous Pollock was.

Never mind that until two days ago, Jordan had considered Pollock a casual friend. Now Pollock was the enemy. Anyone who stood between him and Lady Emma—Emily—was the enemy.

Even Ian. “Well?” Jordan glanced at his friend. “What’s your plan? Am I in?”

“You’re in. I can’t miss the chance to watch you make a fool of yourself over a woman.” Before Jordan could retort, he continued, “Here’s what I thought we’d do…”

This was Emily’s second walk with Mr. Pollock through the gardens. During the first, he’d questioned her about her love of Scotland. She hadn’t been able to turn the conversation to Lady Sophie before Lady Dundee had joined them.

Though Emily had wanted to leave, this was the perfect time to question Mr. Pollock, especially with Jordan gone. Somehow she’d conveyed to Lady Dundee her desire to stay, but it had taken
more contrivance to gain this second walk with Mr. Pollock.

At last they were alone. Everyone else had retreated into the house since the afternoon light had waned, so the gardens felt more intimate and exotic. The gazebo added to the effect, with its nymphs for columns and its ornate roof. As they approached it, the only sounds were those of their boots crunching the gravel walkway and a nightingale trilling a twilight song.

“You certainly put Blackmore in his place this afternoon,” Mr. Pollock murmured confidentially. “I wager he won’t bother you again.”

She wished that were the case, but suspected that Mr. Pollock’s remark merely revealed his hopes. Lord St. Clair was right: the young man did seem to resent Jordan. She couldn’t imagine why, unless it was because Jordan had the title and status Mr. Pollock was unlikely to obtain.