“Yes, Emma.” Lady Beatrice lowered her bulk to the settee. “I do think you should ask Mr. Parker-Roth and Meg to explain what happened before you fly too high into the boughs.”
“Well, I would like to know what happened, too.” Mrs. Parker-Roth turned to Parks. “John, would you care to explain?”
Lady Westbrooke had just handed Meg the wayward shawl.
“Of course, Mother. I—”
“No,” Meg said, wrapping the shawl securely around her shoulders and standing. “This is all my fault. I shall explain.”
What was Emma doing here? She was supposed to be home in Kent. Well, that was a question to be answered later. Now everyone was looking at her, waiting for her to speak.
Meg pulled the shawl a little tighter around her. She had never appeared so disheveled anywhere but her bedchamber. She opened her mouth.
What exactly was she going to say?
She glanced at Mrs. Parker-Roth. Instead of anger, she saw cautious curiosity in the older woman’s moss green eyes, eyes that looked so much like Parks’s.
“Go on, Meg.” Emma’s voice was sharp enough to draw blood. “You said you would explain.”
“Give her a moment to gather her thoughts, my dear.”
“That’s not the only thing she should be gathering, Charles. Her dress, her hairpins…”
Meg felt Parks’s hand on the small of her back and took courage from his touch. She appreciated his letting her explain instead of trying to do it himself. Now if she only knew what to say…
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “First I should say that Mr. Parker-Roth is completely blameless.”
Silence and stares of incredulity greeted this statement.
“It’s true.” Why did they look as if they did not believe her? “He had nothing to do with my, ah, current situation.”
Lord Westbrooke turned a sudden laugh into a cough.
Meg glanced up at Parks. He appeared to be studying a large painting of a bewigged Palmerson ancestor.
“So, let me be certain I understand this,” Lady Beatrice said. “Mr. Parker-Roth had nothing to do with your current dishabille?”
“That’s correct. I was in the garden with—” Did she want to mention Bennington’s name? Surely Emma wouldn’t force her to wed that reprobate? “With another man. Mr. Parker-Roth happened upon us and rescued me.”
“Who is this mysterious other man?” Emma was still glaring at Parks.
“I would rather not say.” How could she have had the poor taste to consider the viscount for even a moment? She did not want Lizzie, Robbie, and Charles—let alone Emma—knowing how bacon-brained she’d been.
Emma snorted. “Because there was no other man.”
“Now see here—”
Meg put a hand out to stop Parks. She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, but Parks’s intervention would not help matters. Emma’s face had its mulish expression.
“Emma, you know I would not lie to you.”
Emma simply glared in reply.
“Yes, my dear,” Charles said. “You are letting your anger—”
Emma turned to glare at him.
“—your understandable anger cloud your judgment.”
“Look at her, Charles.”
Charles—and everyone—looked at her.
Meg bit her lip. She knew she looked terribly shocking. And it was clear Emma wouldn’t rest until she had all the details. “Very well, it was Lord Bennington.”
“Bennington? That lump?” Lizzie blushed and covered her mouth. “Pardon me. That just slipped out.”
Lord Westbrooke grinned. “This will give old Bennie something else to hate you for, Parks.”
“I am well aware of it.”
Emma shook her head, clearly surprised. “I would not have expected such behavior from Viscount Bennington.”
“Neither would I,” Meg said. “You can be sure I would not have ventured outside with the man if I’d had the least inkling of it.”
“You should not be venturing outside with any gentlemen!”
“Emma, I am twenty-one. I am not a child any more.”
Charles put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should wait until a more private time to have our family squabbles?”
Emma scowled. “Very well.” She shot an expressive look at Meg. “We will continue this discussion in the carriage on our way home.”
Meg held her tongue. She had come with Lady Beatrice and she intended to leave with her, but there was no need to tell Emma that now. In fact, if she played her cards carefully, she should be able to avoid having Emma ring a peal over her altogether. She relaxed slightly. A mistake. She was only out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“However, I do wonder,” Charles said, looking at her, “how you happened to be sitting on Mr. Parker-Roth’s lap when we arrived.”
“Um.” No adequate answer presented itself.
“Excellent question, Charles. It’s not as though the gentleman’s lap was the only option. He might have stood to give you a place to sit.” Lady Beatrice ran her hand over the dull red upholstery of the settee. “And while I grant you this seat is unattractive, I am quite comfortable.”
“Well…”
“And why did you become separated from that shawl you are now clutching? It does not seem especially warm in here”—Charles focused on Parks, his voice becoming sharper—“unless perhaps you were engaged in some, ah, heat-producing activity?”
“I, um, well, you see…”
Parks cleared his throat. “I am happy to offer an explanation for Miss Peterson, my lord.”
“No.” She turned to search Parks’s face. His expression was pleasant, polite, and totally opaque. “We discussed this. You rescued me from Bennington. You should not be punished for a good deed. I said I would explain.”
Parks smiled slightly. “Would you care to explain what we were doing when my mother came in?”
Meg turned a bright shade of red. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no words emerged.
“What were you doing, Parker-Roth?” The marquis’s voice was
