The Butler Did It (22 page)

Morgan translated that bit of information in his head, and it came out:
You're a rutting boar, my lord, and should be ashamed of yourself, but it's not to worry for I, Thornley, am here to save Miss Clifford from your brutish behavior.

He turned as he heard Emma walking toward the door, probably to open it and assure Thornley that she was just fine, thank you, and he quickly raced after her, grabbed her arm while he put a finger to his lips, warning her to silence.

“Miss Clifford is upstairs this past twenty minutes or more, Thornley. You're losing your touch if you didn't see her go.”

There was a silence on the other side of the door that had Morgan feeling twelve again, and caught out trying to light one of his mother's guests' cheroots he'd found half-burnt in a dish.

“Yes, my lord,” Thornley said at last. “Forgive me, my lord. I understand completely.”

“And he does, too,” Morgan said once he was sure Thornley had withdrawn his ear from its place, pressed against the wooden door. “He'll give you time to escape to your rooms, to save your embarrassment.”

“Why didn't you let me open the door? He sounded worried, dear man.”

In answer, Morgan took her hand and pulled her over to the gilt-edged mirror hanging between two bookcases. He laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her to the glass. “Does this answer your question, Miss Clifford? I wished to spare Thornley his blushes.”

She looked, and then goggled. Where was the proper and composed young miss in her virginal white gown and pretty faux pearls woven into her hair? She certainly wasn't looking back at her from this mirror!

Why, she looked…she looked positively
abandoned.
Her hair tumbling, her neckline crooked, her lips swollen. There was even a slight redness on her chin, which she suddenly realized must have come from his lordship's slight growth of beard rubbing against her tender skin.

“Oh, my stars,” she said quietly, just before she saw his smug, satisfied smile, reflected above her, and turned in his arms, to slap him sharply on his cheek. It was, she was sure, the proper thing to do, although she was employing the exercise a good ten minutes too late.

Morgan released her, to press one hand against his cheek. “What was that in aid of, Miss Clifford? Your sin, or mine? A kiss may be dismissed, but what we have very nearly done cannot be so easily forgotten, nor forgiven. You do know you've just been compromised, don't you? Perhaps we will name our second son Perry?”

“Surely you're not serious. There is no reason for any such thing. No one knows what happened here, unless you tell them. I most certainly am not going to run through the streets, ringing a bell and announcing it to the world.”

Morgan felt a wash of relief, followed quickly by a niggle of doubt. Shame for his reprehensible behavior would come later, he knew, but for now, he found himself rather stung. Had she been totally unimpressed by his lovemaking? No, he wouldn't believe that.

She'd responded like a wildcat in his arms. She was an untutored but definitely sensual young woman who had reacted when he'd acted.

And yet, simply put, the girl flat out simply didn't like him. She'd just been given the chance to gain any debutante's wildest dream—a title, unlimited wealth—and she had turned both it and him—mostly him, he knew—down without a blink. It was insulting, that's what it was. An insulting, lucky escape. So why didn't he feel lucky?

“Are you saying, Miss Clifford, that you wish this interlude to be erased from our minds?”

“Good God, yes!”

“Very well, it is erased, and never to be repeated. Are you happy now? Lord knows I, for one, am ecstatic. Miss Clifford?”

She didn't answer him. She couldn't answer him. So she picked up her skirts and fled, running straight past Riley, who grinned at her in the most humiliating way. She didn't stop running until she was in her bedchamber, where she stopped, gathered her breath and then tiptoed over to close the door to the dressing room, so as not to wake Claramae.

Morning would be time and enough to pack, and leave this madhouse.

“I'
M MIGHTILY SURPRISED
, Miss Clifford, if I might be so bold as to say so, that your guardian allowed us this excursion,” Jarrett Rolin said as he expertly tooled his pair so that the curricle was neatly blended into the line of equipages making the round of Rotten Row in Hyde Park.

Emma simply smiled, then went back to examining her surroundings. She kept quiet, because she longed to agree with Mr. Rolin, just as she longed to inquire as to why the marquis had taken the man in such dislike.

But, as she had passed beyond her initial urge to flee London and never return, she had also been reassured by the note Claramae had passed to her along with her morning chocolate:
Miss Clifford. I fear I have taken a nasty knock to the head by some unknown hand, and cannot now recall anything that transpired as of early last evening. If I might request an interview with you this evening in my private study, at eight of the clock, perhaps we can, with luck, reconstruct those events, putting them in their proper order. Your servant, Westham.

What that note meant, she'd been sure, was that the
marquis was willing to lie if pressed for details of whatever it was that had transpired between the two of them last night, and thought it best that they got those lies straight. It seemed a sane and workable solution, and if his note both pleased and saddened her, she wouldn't think about that at all.

“You know, Miss Clifford,” Rolin said after a few moments spent wondering if the chit had somehow bitten off her tongue since their fairly witty repartee of the previous evening, “I have been longing for this moment all day. Indeed, the clock refused to move at times, so eager was I to speak with you again.”

There. Perfect. That ought to get her talking.

“Ah, Mr. Rolin,” Emma said, turning to look at him. “That statement puts me much in mind of a dancing bear. You wish me to perform for you?” Her smile softened her words, but she already had deduced that this was a man who said what he thought, and thought very much about what he said.

Rolin grinned at her, then bit back a curse as some cow-handed creature attempted to cut his ridiculously oversize high-perch phaeton in front of him in line, employing a generous use of the whip to direct his horseflesh. “Ignorant puppy,” he said, turning back to Emma. “Not you, Miss Clifford. That idiot in front of us. If he had succeeded in scraping the wheels of my curricle I should have had to desert you to beat him soundly about the head and shoulders.”

“Would you? I mean, would you really do something like that?” Emma asked, watching as the youth's showy and unruly team, undoubtedly weary of the sawing on their reins as well as the constant use of the whip, got the bits between their teeth, and the phaeton took off across the grass. “Oh, my stars! There are people walking on the grass. He could kill someone. Mr. Rolin, do something!”

Rolin watched the phaeton as it gained speed, even as the ridiculous young dandy toppled from the seat, onto the grass. “Alas, I cannot leave you, Miss Clifford, nor expose you to danger by attempting to chase down those horses in my curricle. The marquis would have my liver and lights if anything untoward happened to his ward, I'm sure. And, alas again, this sort of thing happens more often than you might suppose, as young pups are handed the reins long before they know how to employ them.”

“But—but somebody should do something,” Emma swallowed down hard as the phaeton seemed to pick up speed.

“And someone most probably will,” Rolin said wearily, bored by the entire exercise, because he had not instigated it. “Just not me. It is left to us to sit back and enjoy the show. Do you think he cracked his head, Miss Clifford? Danger and possible bloodshed to one side, there is nothing like a diversion to liven up the hour.”

“That's not amusing, Mr. Rolin,” Emma said as she turned on the seat, looking about to see if someone, any
one, would come to the rescue before the phaeton came to grief.

There were shrieks of alarm. Women and nattily dressed gentlemen ran for the cover of sheltering trees. Horses unnerved by the shouts, the excitement, began to rear in their traces. Even Rolin, a known whipster, had all he could do to keep his blacks from bolting.

The scene had all the makings of an out-and-out disaster.

Emma felt anger at Mr. Rolin, who was reining in his horses rather than employing them in an attempt at rescue. She felt impotence, as she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent a possible carnage.

And then she felt joy, because suddenly, appearing as if from nowhere, came the Marquis of Westham astride a magnificent bay stallion, riding with his body pressed low over the horse's head as he raced across the wide expanse of grass, the stallion's hooves throwing up huge clumps of the perfectly manicured turf as it moved in a full gallop toward the runaway phaeton.

“Oh, bless us, if it isn't the marquis to the rescue,” Rolin said in disgust. “How depressingly expected of the man.”

Emma barely heard him. She was much too busy watching the marquis, watching how he directed his horse toward the phaeton from an angle, cutting the distance almost by halves with each long, powerful stride of his mount.

“My God, he's going to jump onto one of the horses, isn't he? He can't do that. He'll be killed.”

His own horses now back under his control, Rolin looked toward the scene unfolding within one hundred yards of the Serpentine.
Bloody show-off,
he thought, but said, “Westham the hero. How very splendid. Don't look, Miss Clifford, for you're correct. This could end badly.”

Emma, unceremoniously and without thought to what she was doing, rudely pushed Rolin back, as he had leaned forward, to block her view. “No, he's not going to jump. I thought he was going to try to jump onto one of the horses. They're heading straight for the Serpentine now. He's
herding
them there, into the water. Brilliant, Westham! Brilliant!”

In a moment, the chit would be standing in the curricle, giving his horses fits with the movement, waving her arms wildly and shouting “Huzza! Huzza!” Rolin's upper lip curled. “Indeed,” he drawled, setting the brake on his curricle, wrapping the reins about the stick, and then folding his arms across his chest, bored with the entire affair.

Holding her breath, Emma watched as the team charged straight into the water, slowed, and then stopped when the phaeton's wheels sank into the mud, even as the stallion was neatly turned at the last moment, not so much as stepping one hoof into the water.

She watched as the marquis masterfully controlled his horse, the stallion dancing in circles, still with so much energy to dissipate. Then, satisfied that the worst had been averted, he turned his mount and headed back
across the grass at a canter, the stallion's head held up almost smugly, its tail high and waving like a flag.

He stopped the horse and dismounted near the dandy, who was just then nearing Rotten Row, walking a little unsteadily while bemoaning the grass stains on his pantaloons.

Emma leaned forward even more, straining to hear what the marquis said.

“Damned nags,” the dandy grumbled, looking up at the marquis. “Need more of the whip, that's what. And let me tell you, sir, if one of them is injured, I'll see to you for payment.”

“Ah,” Rolin said, once again interested, and knowing full well of Westham's temper. He had, after all, used it to serve his own amusement in the past. “This, I believe, Miss Clifford, would be the moment the good marquis delivers a whipping himself, to that young idiot.”

Emma bit her bottom lip. What Rolin said was not unreasonable. She certainly would relish the opportunity to take her riding crop to the ungrateful whelp.

“Your name,” she heard Morgan say, his voice low and controlled. Why, he even smiled at the ungrateful whelp, who idiotically drew himself up, jutted out his chin, and said, “I am the Viscount Felstead. And who, my good man, are you?”

“Oh, you're right, Mr. Rolin. What a foolish young man. The marquis has every right to beat him into flinders.”

Then her mouth dropped open as Morgan inclined his head, only slightly. Then he smiled. “My lord. As it would appear that you have five thumbs on each hand, as well as half the wits of a puling infant and less concern for your fellow man than a doorstop, I will tell you that I am the gentleman who is relieving you of the dilemma presented to you by your horses and equipage being stuck in the Serpentine. For the price of one pound, which you will gratefully accept, the team and phaeton are now mine.”

“The devil they are! Didn't you hear me, man? I'm the Viscount Felstead. Who are you, to talk to me in such a manner?”

“The Marquis of Westham, at your service,” Morgan said, inclining his head once more.

“Well, I don't care,” the viscount said, seeing the pound note that had appeared in Morgan's hand and grabbing it, ripping it in two and letting the pieces flutter to the ground.

“Oh dear,” Emma said as Morgan bent down and picked up the destroyed note.

“Not a pound, my lord?” Morgan said, shrugging. “Very well then, a half pound.” He tucked one half of the pound note behind the top button of the viscount's flashy waistcoat, leaning in close to whisper something in the youth's ear.

Even from this distance, Emma could see the viscount's eyes widen, before he said, “Thank you, my lord Westham. Yes, indeed, thank you very much.”

A groom in Westham livery rode up as the viscount was still bowing and thanking the marquis, and Morgan directed him to the equipage still stuck in the mud.

Pedestrians who had gathered, hoping to see something more spectacular than what had played out, drifted away even as Morgan mounted the stallion and followed the groom to the banks of the Serpentine. The line of carriages and curricles, landaus and phaetons was set into motion once more.

“Well, that's that, Miss Clifford,” Rolin said, releasing the brake and lightly flicking the reins to give his team the office to start. “By the time you arrive at your third social event of the evening, it will have been a team of four, not two, Westham's horse will have been snorting real fire out its nostrils, and the good marquis will have leaned half out of the saddle to swoop up three hapless infants and their nanny, removing them from harm's way in just the nick of time.”

“But that's not what happened.”

Rolin smile at her kindly. “By tomorrow morning, someone will be saying Parliament should be petitioned to erect a statue of Westham, just over there, beside the Serpentine, and by next week, no one will remember anything of the incident at all. Welcome, my dear Miss Clifford, to London.”

 

T
HE AGED COACH
, badly sprung and still smelling vaguely of the cowshed where their neighbor had kept it stowed
until Emma bartered for its use, rolled along Brook Street, on the way back to Grosvenor Square.

Fanny Clifford, who had taken the forward-facing seat as no more than her due, looked across the coach to Sir Edgar and smiled.

“A successful afternoon's work by and large, wouldn't you say, Edgar?”

“I'm not sure, Fanny,” he told her, then grinned, for he was a happy man at the moment. “I mean, both men invested, there is that. But I don't believe I've ever before seen an earl bite on a piece of gold to be sure it's real.”

“I told you. Not got the brains they were born with, Beany or Johnnie. And I wasn't even in the room when you reluctantly agreed to take their money. That's the beauty of it, Edgar. Even when it all comes to nothing, they'll see me as no more than another victim, just a dotty old woman who believed an adventurer who pretended to love her. Not that they'll talk about it, to anyone. Nobody likes looking the fool.”

“I don't know why you had to say that about the two of us, Fanny. And holding on to my arm all the time? Gave me the creeps, no insult intended.”

“None taken. Put any fears to rest, Edgar, that I'll soon be chasing you around any tables, hoping to launch myself on top of your old bones,” Fanny said, then rubbed her palms together. “So, how much did we get?”

“I haven't looked,” Edgar said truthfully, reaching into his pocket to pull out two packets of folded bank
notes. He hadn't looked, counted, because that would have been a shabby thing to do in front of his investors; but he did know the amounts. He handed one packet to Fanny, and began counting the other one himself.

“Three thousand pounds,” Fanny said after a moment. She had licked her finger and shuffled through the notes with the dexterity of a cardsharp. “Not all that much to be brought in as partner to the group that will create gold out of chamber pots. What did you get?”

“Only half that amount, but I didn't wish to press, or be thought suspicious,” Edgar said, quickly sliding the notes he'd been counting back into the packet and then reaching out a hand to take back the rest of it, mingle the two piles together. “And by the time they think to ask for more proof, I'll be halfway to Paris. Always wanted to see Paris.”

“And I'll be weeping into my handkerchief, bemoaning the fact that my beau lied to me, used me horribly, and then ran off with all my jewelry. You cad, Edgar.”

“I am that, Fanny,” Edgar said cheerfully, depositing the six thousand pounds back in his pocket, grateful she hadn't asked to count all the money. He didn't feel guilty, either, for hadn't the scheme been his idea in the first place? “How many more?”

Fanny shrugged. “Two? Three? No. Just the one. Willie. He's got more money than God.”

“Willie?” Edgar nearly choked on the hard candy he'd popped into his mouth (having earlier popped it into his
pocket, at Lord Boswick's). “That would be Sir Willard Humphrey, former Minister of the Admiralty? Oh, Fanny, I don't think so.”

“Why not? Show me a man in government with half a brain, Edgar. That's how they get into government, you know. Someone asks all the ignoramuses in the realm to raise their hands, and half the ones that do are then given all the important posts in the kingdom. The rest are hired out as village idiots. Willie could have gone either way.”