Few of her suitors had made any lasting impression on her; in fact now, just five years later, Jemma struggled to recall all of their names.
But one had intrigued and very much attracted her. When a novice socialite of just seventeen, he had drawn her in to a glittering, sophisticated world now denied to her. He’d taught her to dance properly, given her the confidence to converse with his aristocratic friends and relatives. Her little inexperienced gaffes were never mocked, but gently corrected or smoothed over. When she’d nervously enquired if he’d heard the scandalous talk about her family, he’d mildly replied that her parents’ problems were not hers. Utterly relieved that he knew, but had elected to dismiss the Bailey stigma as irrelevant, she’d abandoned herself to enjoying being with him, aware that other débutantes watched, green-eyed, whilst he lavished on her his amusing, charismatic company. He’d made her laugh…and sigh when he’d taken her out to the garden during Lady Cranleigh’s ball. There had been other occasions too when he’d managed to manoeuvre her, quite willingly, into a seductive setting, but she’d remained faithful to Robert, her faithless sweetheart.
So she’d rejected Marcus Speer’s proposal too and gone home to Essex unattached with her father’s disapproval growling in her ears. Now Marcus was betrothed to Deborah Cleveland. No doubt later today he would be told by his fiancée of an amusing bit of gossip she’d heard whilst out shopping with her friends. Jemma swallowed the painful indignation that threatened to close her throat and eject water from her hot eyes. She had done nothing shameful and didn’t deserve to be laughed at by anyone. She could not bear that he, of all people, might find her risible. Would he believe her so desperate now to get a husband that she’d stoop to sending a letter to a fat, balding fellow, known to keep company with the worst kind of people, to beg him to renew his proposal? Shaking off Maura’s restraining fingers, she marched towards the young women, determined to impress on them both that there was no truth in any of it, no matter what Lucy had overheard her brother telling his repulsive friend.
* * *
‘Sir…please, sir…you must attend to some of your pressing affairs. It will take but a quarter of an hour of your time. If you will only join me in the library, we can clear the worst of it.’
Marcus Speer strode on into the house, his handsome features tautened in preoccupation. Adroitly he relieved himself of his coat and hat without slowing his pace. The butler fielded those garments wordlessly and made off towards the cloakroom with them.
Marcus’s secretary, Hepworth, was less easily dispatched than Perkins had been. He doggedly bore being ignored and skipped behind his master, trying to keep up with his long stride whilst repeating his pleas to make him deal with his correspondence. ‘Some social invitations for this very evening must have urgent replies,’ he huffed.
Marcus came to a halt and pivoted about with a frown. ‘What?’ His thick dark brows were knit together in a mix of irritation and concentration. He had just arrived home from visiting the Earl of Gresham, his uncle, who, having relapsed overnight, was now deemed by his physician to be on his deathbed. The Earl had been called an old fraud before when he’d clawed his way back to health from a lung infection virulent enough to see off a man half his age. But on this occasion his nephew, and Dr Robertson, had offered no gentle banter to encourage the septuagenarian to stop coughing and take a spoon of gruel. It was plain to see that the Earl of Gresham had taken his last meal and was close to taking his final breath. He was mortally ill and drifting in and out of consciousness. Dr Robertson had sent Marcus home to rest. In his professional opinion he estimated that his patient might battle on for a day or two yet, for his pulse was still quite strong. He’d advised Marcus to return to Grosvenor Square in the morning, and if he were needed sooner at his uncle’s bedside to be with him at the end, he’d swiftly summon him.
So it was a deep and sombre melancholy rather than bad manners that had made Marcus ignore his secretary’s pleas to go with him to dictate some correspondence. Marcus cast a look down on Hepworth’s sparse pate. The man pushed his spectacles up over the bridge of his nose and myopically returned his gaze.
‘Just fifteen minutes of your time, sir, and we can at least deal with those matters pertaining to the next few days.’ Hepworth’s tone was wheedling.
Marcus gave a brisk nod and, turning on his heel headed towards the library. Whilst they walked he started on the business in hand the quicker to get it over with. ‘With regard to any social invitations that fall within the next fortnight, you may decline all on my behalf.’ He stooped to retrieve a document that had fluttered to the floor despite Hepworth’s contortions to catch at it.
‘I have that, sir. All to be declined.’ A look of enlightenment suddenly crossed Hepworth’s features and his mouth drooped sadly. ‘Oh…your uncle, sir…beg pardon, I omitted to ask how he is,’ Hepworth whispered, aghast. ‘He has rallied before and I’ve always believed the Earl to be indestructible, you know.’
A half-smile softened Marcus’s thin lips at the genuine distress in Hepworth’s tone. As the Earl of Gresham’s rightful heir, Marcus understood that he now had important matters to attend to. He’d been quick to slip away from the sick-room in order to begin the inevitable business with undertakers and lawyers. It wasn’t his inheritance or the ambition of having a title that had hastened his departure from Grosvenor Square, but the need to escape the distressing truth that he was soon to lose someone who’d treated him as a son. He’d been unashamed to love the Earl in return. No man ever had a better guardian and mentor.
A combination of Marcus’s innate pride and ambition and his uncle’s guidance and excellent connections meant that by the time he was twenty-five he’d achieved wealth, status, and popularity. With his thirty-second birthday only a few months away all he’d lacked until now was a title and a wife. Soon both would be his, yet he desired neither. Slowly he became aware that his secretary’s bleak gaze was still fixed on his face. ‘There is no hope this time,’ he told Hepworth gruffly. ‘He is dying.’ He cleared his throat to continue. ‘Dr Robertson has sent me away for the Earl is slipping in to a coma. He thinks that I should return in the morning, although he cannot say for sure how long he has.’
Hepworth bowed his head, shook it, and murmured his regrets. He had clung to the hope that the old boy might surprise them all by springing back to life as the weather became more clement. It was early April and outside gloriously mild and bright for so early in the year. The daffodils had been showy for weeks beneath radiant light and cloudless skies. In contrast the atmosphere within this grand mansion on Beaufort Place was depressingly gloomy and grave.
Having entered the library, they headed for the large table and took their customary seats: Marcus at the head of the table and Hepworth positioned to one side of him. Briskly Hepworth spread out papers on tooled leather. He sorted them into piles. ‘Those I have an answer for,’ he muttered to himself, putting a stack of gilt-edged invitation cards to one side and flattening them with a pat.
He came to one letter and unfolded it. ‘Ah…this one…’ He coughed and a finger worked inside his cravat to ease it from his flushing neck. He did not relish broaching this subject. ‘Umm…it seems a delicate matter, sir, and I would have left it to you to open had I known the nature of its content.’ He pushed the paper over leather towards his employer. ‘It had nothing on the outside to mark it as personal, I’m afraid.’
Marcus idly picked up the paper, quickly scanned it, let it drop, and for a moment made no comment. His expression remained inscrutable, yet, as though in disbelief at what he’d seen, he stared into space before snatching it up again and rereading it. Aware that Hepworth was discreetly regarding him over the rims of his spectacles, he let the paper fall back to the table. ‘I think it must be a joke in very poor taste. You may ignore that one. I will personally deal with the matter.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ Hepworth
