come from her father’s side,’ the grande dame opined, then affected not to see the icy stare that comment elicited from her hostess. Augusta let her glasses fall against her ample bosom and resumed attacking her beef with her knife and fork.
Emily sensed the old harridan’s grandson was looking her way. She knew Stephen would want to wordlessly convey his chagrin at his grandmother’s shockingly blunt manner. Emily took pity on him and gave him a subtle smile. Immediately he returned her an apologetic grimace that caused his thick brows to disappear beneath his fringe of blonde curls.
‘Miss Beaumont has an exceedingly fine singing voice,’ Stephen nervously told his grandmother. When that praise failed to wring a compliment from the old lady, he added, ‘And I’ve not encountered any young lady who can play the pianoforte so well, and without a piece of music to follow.’
‘That don’t mean she’ll make a good wife,’ Mrs Bond hissed at her grandson in an audible aside.
Emily quickly snatched up her glass and downed an unladylike quantity of wine in one gulp. Oddly she felt an urge to endorse Mrs Bond’s advice to her grandson. Stephen Bond was a nice gentleman but, unless there was no option but to do it, she would not marry him. He deserved to be loved, not tolerated.
Emily’s silver eyes, brimful of laughter, lifted to Stephen’s embarrassed countenance, then darted to her mother’s face. Penelope Beaumont’s expression was a study of furious indignation.
Had Emily been in lighter spirits, she would have more fully appreciated the unexpected entertainment that had arrived punctually at seven o’clock in the stout shape of Mrs Augusta Bond. She might even have entered into the spirit of the game and given the mischievous old biddy a run for her money. But her eyes were drawn to where her papa sat quietly at the head of the table. He seemed to have withdrawn to a world of his own. Even his wife’s frequent glares could not budge him from it.
Emily could guess what was preoccupying her poor papa. He was trying to fathom into what sort of trouble his eldest son had now plunged. Before dinner Emily had thought she would by now have an answer to that conundrum. But the letter she had received was not after all from her brother. However, it did concern him, and Emily was still pondering on the peculiar message she had received, and why it had come to her at all.
When Tarquin’s creditors gathered, if they could not find him, they usually sought to inveigle her father into paying. But this time she had received the begging letter, albeit couched in covert terms.
A person who remained anonymous had issued her an invitation to meet them tomorrow by the pawnbrokers’ shop in Whiting Street in order that she might learn something important concerning her brother. It also stated that she must keep the matter to herself to avoid a scandal.
Emily had marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. She had quickly concluded that the author must be one of Tarquin’s creditors who hoped to coerce her to honour her brother’s debt. She had also deduced that the likely culprit was the ruffian with the broken nose, who had been loitering about, because the message was poorly written.
Emily was not so naïve to believe that her brother gambled solely in the gentlemen’s clubs with his peers, but the idea that he was consorting with a man sporting a broken nose and a lack of grammar was indeed disheartening. Nevertheless, she would keep the appointment, and she would keep it to herself. She glanced again at her father as he absently pushed food about on his plate. He was approaching his sixty-fifth birthday and had for too long been encumbered with Tarquin’s problems. Emily had no intention of taking on the yoke and would make that abundantly clear to Tarquin as soon as she again got within earshot of the selfish wretch.
‘Have you ever received a marriage proposal, Miss Beaumont?’
Emily focussed on the present and saw that Augusta Bond had her bright beady eyes on her.
‘Has any man asked you to marry him?’ the old lady insisted on knowing.
Emily glanced at her mother’s hideously shocked expression. Stephen had ceased chewing in alarm and had one cheek bloated with food. Emily compressed her lips to suppress the giggle throbbing in her throat. She took a deep breath before replying calmly, ‘Indeed I have, Mrs Bond. I was engaged when I was twenty.’
‘Cry off, did he?’
‘Umm…no. I think I did, actually,’ Emily said and placed her napkin down on her plate.
‘Emily was betrothed to Viscount Devlin.’ Mrs Beaumont issued that information in a glacial tone.
The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at Emily with a glimmer of respect. ‘Managed to hook a title, did you? No chance of getting him back now he’s married to the Corbett chit. I hear she’s already increasing.’
‘I’ll see if the next course is ready,’ Penelope enunciated frigidly and surged up majestically from the table.
Emily glanced at her father to see he was now very aware of the tension in the room. He was looking in concern at her as though fearing she was upset. She reassured him with a smile before sending a challenging look at Augusta.
The old lady’s eyes narrowed behind the glass, but Emily had the oddest impression that, before she let fall her lorgnette, Augusta winked at her.
Chapter Three
‘That woman is the rudest person I ever did meet!’
Emily had barely managed to put a foot over the threshold of the morning room when that exclamation assaulted her ears. She had hoped that a good night’s sleep might dilute her mother’s ire, but it seemed as strong as ever.
When their guests had left at ten of the clock last evening, Mrs Beaumont had needed several draughts of sherry and the ministrations of both her husband and daughter to calm her enough to get her to bed.
‘And her grandson is so…pleasant, so…inoffensive,’ Mrs Beaumont emphasised with a quivering finger. ‘Do you think it is her age? She looks to have reached her three score years and ten. Perhaps she is becoming a little confused.’
‘I think she knows exactly what she is about,’ Emily said with a light chuckle. ‘I imagine Mrs Bond likes to be shocking.’
Penelope Beaumont clucked disgust at that. She pushed the jam pot towards her daughter as Emily sat down opposite her at the breakfast table.
Emily commenced spreading blackberries on to her toast, saying, ‘Mrs Bond might be getting on in years, but she seemed to me to be in robust health and, in an odd way, I quite liked her.’
When Penelope heard that, her chin sagged towards her bosom.
‘Oh, come, Mama, you must admit Augusta has a certain lively spirit, and she plays a mean hand of piquet. Papa lost a crown to her.’
Penelope snapped together her lips. ‘And that compensates for her insults? How dare she speak so! You are a beauty in your prime.’
‘She said nothing that was not true.’ Emily took a fond glance at her mother from under long brunette lashes. Penelope had long harboured hopes that a knight in shining armour would carry her only daughter off to his Mayfair mansion and a life of untold luxury. Emily’s eyes shaded wistfully. The knave had tarried too long. Her mother was on the point of urging Emily to settle for Mr Bond and a villa in Putney. Emily pushed away her plate and wiped crumbs from her
