One Golden Ring (11 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Bolen

BOOK: One Golden Ring
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Fiona considered summoning Emmie but decided to wait until her leg began to heal. Were the child to see her now, she might be frightened, or she might develop the impression that her new stepmother was frail, neither prospect acceptable to Fiona.
 
 
As they sped to the Thames dock where Nick's yacht was harbored, Nick imparted his instructions to his younger brother. “Your letter must stress three things: first, that Lord Agar's safe return is your uppermost concern; second, that the exchange must take place in the plaza; and third, the wagon with the money will be guarded around the clock until the time set by the captors for the exchange, at which time your men will disperse from their stations and lay down their arms.”
“Then I'll need another contingent of men to guard the other twenty-five thousand guineas you're making me bring for the purchase of francs,” William said.
“I've already thought of that. Instead of the usual eight, you'll find twelve men waiting at the
Athena
. Is the money concealed at present below the false bottom of the storage space beneath your coach seats?”
William nodded. “Yes, under the false bottom of the seats. It has been guarded around the clock since the day before your wedding. By the way, felicitations on your wife. She's remarkably beautiful.” His green eyes flashing good-naturedly, William inched back and directed an amused glance at his brother. “How are you recommending matrimony?”
“Zealously,” Nick said with a chuckle.
It was dark when they reached the dock. Nick got out of his coach and, bracing against the cold wind, stood on the weathered dock to watch as Will's coach was brought aboard the
Athena
. His glance flicked to his little brother, who was dressed for traveling in Hessians, buff breeches, and brown topcoat, his carelessly tied cravat a stark contrast to his tanned face. As his glance trailed over William's muscular body, Nick was dismayed that this capable man was his baby brother. Heaven help Nick if anything ever happened to the lad.
Once everything was loaded onto the ship, William turned to Nick, smiling cheerfully.
“Take care,” Nick said, a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach.
“I always do.”
Long after William boarded the vessel, Nick stood beneath the lantern light and somberly watched as the yacht began to power down the Thames.
Chapter 11
Fiona was feeling decidedly sorry for herself. It had been two weeks since she had broken her leg, and she was coming to think of Nick's house as her prison. Not that it wasn't a perfectly nice house. The rooms were well appointed and relatively spacious, and since the first week she had not been confined to just her bedchamber, or, rather, Verity's bedchamber. The servants carried her in a sedan chair to any room she desired. But she was getting devilishly tired of the same set of rooms and the same set of faces—mostly servants, except for Nick and Trevor, both of whom were exceedingly solicitous of her.
Trevor had been an enormous help in readying the new house. He'd brought her catalogues and assisted her in making selections. And because her husband's pockets were deep, they had been able to jump over the cabinetmaker's waiting list and been assured they could procure all the furnishings they desired within the next six weeks.
She hoped her leg would be entirely mended in six weeks. As much as she hated the forced inactivity, she hated even more the ugly leather sheath she wore from the base of her hips to her ankle. Even though her dresses covered the ugly brown leather of the surgeon's bonesetting apparatus, Nick viewed it nightly when he helped her dress for bed. She felt less than attractive.
But her husband did not seem to find her unattractive at all. After the first week they had resumed intimacies—not the same intimacies as before, for Nick refused to mount her. But oh how he pleasured her! Using only his wondrously deft hands, he had brought her to climax more times than she could count. He had paid homage to her body, reverently kissing along its pulsepoints, precisely where the erotic effect was greatest.
And she had often curled her greedy hand around his stiff shaft and pulsed it until she brought him to his deliciously groaning release.
The resumption of his normal business activity kept Nick away from the house until nightfall and left her irritable in his absence.
Being irritable was not the way she wished to be when she met her stepdaughter. Though Fiona would rather have waited until she was completely mended to meet the child, she knew that delaying the meeting would send the wrong message to Emmie. The little girl would be sure to think the woman her papa had married had no interest in her, which was far from the truth.
So this morning Fiona had instructed Miss Beckham that she wished to have a private nuncheon with Emmie, then remembering how fond children were of sweets and suspecting that Miss Beckham was unlikely to indulge that particular appetite, Fiona ordered that a tray with a variety of sweetmeats be brought. When the time for the nuncheon drew close, Fiona was carried downstairs to the gold dining room, which was flooded with light from a half-dozen tall casements, and she tucked herself up to the table, hoping the child would not notice her use of the invalid's chair.
She had requested that Miss Emmie have a demitasse cup, which turned out to be identical to Fiona's eggshell-thin cup in every way except its smaller size.
Fiona found herself growing nervous as she waited for Emmie. If she were this nervous, how must the poor child feel? Really, she cautioned herself, she must quit using the word
poor
when thinking of Emmie.
The dining room door creaked halfway open. Fiona looked up to see Emmie standing there, half in the room, half out, a somber look on her lovely little face. She wore a freshly starched, white muslin dress that stopped just above her pale blue satin slippers and was caught below the bodice with ribbands in the same shade of blue as her slippers. Her clothes were so scrupulously elegant she looked like a miniature lady of the
ton
.
She was an extremely pretty child with fair skin, a dusting of light freckles across her nose, and long curls the light brown Fiona imagined would result from blending her father's dark hair with that of a blond woman. In Emmie, Nick's and his mother's high cheekbones had found their way to still another generation, and eyes the same shade of green as Dolina Birmingham's shone from Emmie's worried little face. How could Nick's mother not embrace this child?
“Good afternoon, Emmie,” Fiona said cheerfully. “Won't you please come sit by me?”
Not removing her frightened gaze from Fiona, the child crept closer.
“Here, love,” Fiona said, patting the chair at her right. Why, Fiona wondered, had she gone and called the child
love
? They had never even met before. But something in the little girl's petrified demeanor had coaxed the tender word.
Fiona suddenly recalled a distant memory of herself as a frightened seven-year-old shipped off to a stern aunt while her mother experienced a difficult breeding. It had been years since she had thought of that terrifying feeling of isolation.
Emmie climbed up on the chair beside Fiona and folded tiny hands in her lap. Despite that her father was tall, Emmie seemed small for a child of eight. Had Fiona not known her age, she would have guessed the child no more than six.
“How nice of you to join me,” Fiona said. “I've been greatly looking forward to making your acquaintance. I would have met you sooner had I not gone and injured myself.”
The little girl nodded. “Miss Beckham said you fell down the stairs and broke your leg.” Emmie was possessed of the sweetest, cultured voice.
“I did, indeed. One must be careful to always hold the rail when using stairs.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“My leg?”
Emmie nodded.
“Yes, actually it does. I do
not
recommend broken bones.” Fiona reached for the tray of sweets and held it out the child. “You're to select whatever you want. This is a very special occasion, and you're to eat to your heart's content.”
The little girl's eyes rounded, and a smile swept over her somber face as she contemplated the dazzling array. Among the offerings were candied fruits, rolled wafers, toad-in-the hole biscuits, cocoa nuts in sugar, and plum pudding. Before she made her selection, she peered up at her stepmother. “I'm really to have as much as I like?”
Fiona smiled down benevolently and nodded. “One of each, if you like.”
Emmie happily proceeded to pile her plate high with a sampling of all the offerings while Fiona filled the child's demitasse cup with tea, to which she added a considerable amount of sugar and cream.
Fiona watched indulgently as Emmie tried to eat with the table manners in which she had so obviously been instructed but which she was too young to have mastered. The result was that, while she kept her mouth sealed as she chewed, smudges of berries and chocolates and dribbles of cream ringed that pleasant little mouth as she chewed. And crumbs and globs found their way to the lap of her pristine white dress. Fiona fought back the desire to laugh.
While nibbling on a square of plum pudding, Fiona watched the child eagerly sampling every item on her plate. “Which do think is your favorite?” Fiona asked.
“The plum pudding.” With her tiny hands, she shoved the rest of the pudding into her mouth. When all of the plum pudding had been eaten, Emmie sank back into her seat and sighed.
“Can't finish?”
The little girl shook her head woefully.
Fiona ignored the urge to wipe Emmie's smudged face and hands. She did not want to be perceived as being dictatorial.
Let Miss Beckham play that role.
Now that Emmie had eaten, they could talk. “Have you any questions you'd like to ask me, Emmie?” Fiona inquired.
Emmie nodded. “What am I to call you? Miss Beckham says you're not going to be my mother.”
Did that mean Emmie had hoped for a mother? Poor thing. “I've been thinking about that myself,” Fiona admitted. “Most people have always called me ‘My Lady.' Do you think you could call me that?”
“If you're a lady, does that make Papa a lord?” Emmie asked.
Fiona laughed. “No. I'm a lady because my papa was a lord.”
“Are all ladies pretty like you?”
“I'm flattered that you find me pretty, and I'll tell you a secret.”
Emmie's smile spread across her face as she eagerly bent closer to Fiona.
“I think you're the prettiest little girl I've ever seen.”
“Really?” Emmie asked.
“Really. And you're very well mannered, too. I shall tell Miss Beckham how impressed I am.”
That comment seemed to please the girl.
“Miss Beckham tells me you're especially fond of being outdoors,” Fiona said.
A shadow of disappointment fell across Emmie's face. “Nurse used to take me out whenever I wished, but Miss Beckham prefers being indoors.”
“Do you miss your nurse? Winnie was her name, as I recall.”
Emmie nodded with enthusiasm. “I used to pretend Winnie was my mother because I never had a real mother. When I told Winnie I had no mother, she told me everybody has a real mother.”
Fiona stiffened. “Did she—or your father—tell you about your real mother?”
“Papa will not speak of her, but Winnie said she's dead.”
The kindly nurse must have been trying to protect Emmie's tender emotions. Better a dead mother than a mother who chose not to be with her own child.
“You're fortunate, then, to have such a fine man for your father.”
Tears sprang to Emmie's eyes, and she whirled her face away so Fiona wouldn't see.
“What's the matter, love?” Fiona asked, her voice a melodious whisper. Good Lord, surely Nick had not abused the child in any way! But as quickly as the thought flickered, it died. Fiona knew he was incapable of slighting a loved one in any way.
Emmie shook her little head.
Fiona decided to give the child time to pull herself together, but as the seconds mounted, Emmie could no longer contain her pent-up woes and burst into long, wrenching sobs.
Finally, Fiona could stand it no longer. She settled a gentle hand on Emmie's heaving shoulder and said, “You must tell me why you're so distressed, love.”
“I can't.”
“I wish you would. Perhaps I can help.”
Emmie's head shook frantically. “No, you've already married him.”
Fiona's chest tightened. Did Emmie resent that Fiona had married her father? “Tell me, Emmie,” Fiona said in a semi-stern voice, “are you afraid that because your father's married me he won't have time for you anymore?”
Her little head nodding, Emmie wailed.
Stroking Emmie's soft curls, Fiona spoke in a gentle voice. “You mustn't worry. Your papa has the biggest heart, and in it there is a special chamber for each of his loved ones.”
“But he s-s-said I was his favorite girl, and you're s-s-so pretty—” She stopped to suck in a deep breath. “He won't want to be with me anymore.”
“That's nonsense,” Fiona said sternly. “You'll always be your papa's favorite girl—just as I'll be his favorite woman.”
God willing
.
“But Miss Beckham said it likely you and Papa will have more little girls—”
The very idea unfurled a deep warmth throughout Fiona. “And if we should, you will always be your papa's first little girl—and you'll always be the first in his heart.”
Fiona gave Emmie her napkin to dry her tears, then Emmie looked up at her, her eyes red and swollen. She looked utterly forlorn, and it tore at Fiona's heart. “Do you really think so?” Emmie asked.
“Oh, I know so. You see, I'm coming to know your father quite well, and it's perfectly clear to me how important you are to him. No other little girl would ever hold the place in his heart that you occupy.”
A tap sounded at the door, and Biddles entered, his gaze darting from Fiona's face to Emmie's tear-stained one. Wretched bad luck, thought Fiona, that he had to enter the room just then. He was apt to think Fiona a wicked stepmother inducing an innocent child to tears.
“Mr. Trevor Simpson to see you, madame,” the butler said.
“Show him into the drawing room,” Fiona instructed. “I shall join him there in a moment.”
Once the door was closed, Fiona turned to Emmie. “Now I wish for you to go clean yourself up because you're going on a special outing today.”
“Where?”
“Have you ever been to the zoological gardens?”
Emmie shook her head, her sable curls bouncing. “Is that where they've got a real, live elephant?”
“Indeed it is, and I'm going to instruct Miss Beckham to take you there this very afternoon.”
A smile replaced the woeful expression on Emmie's face as she bolted from the room, forgetting Fiona's existence.
Fiona wheeled herself into the drawing room. “And what have you brought me today, dearest Trevor?” she said as she entered the chamber.

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