The Heir and the Spare (17 page)

With Emilia sulking in her bedchamber and calling hours over, Lady Palmerston turned her attention to her correspondence. It was the usual assortment of invitations and letters from friends. She stopped at two letters from America. One was for her, and the other for Emilia. Both were from Harold Highhart.

“Hmmph,” Lady Palmerston said aloud. Harold was entitled to his opinion of Devon Kensington. She, however, would reserve judgment for now. She went upstairs to deliver Emilia’s letter to her.

“A letter from your father,” she said, handing it to her niece, who was seated at the small writing table by the window.

“Oh, good. I was just writing to him.”

“Telling him what a horrendous, awful man the president of his company is?” Lady Palmerston replied, pausing before the mirror above the fireplace to check her appearance.

“Yes. And that I am a spectacular failure on the marriage mart,” Emilia said bitterly.

“And how it’s all Devon Kensington’s fault, too, I suppose.”

“Well, obviously.”

“Emilia, he came here to apologize to you today.”

“Really? Because I didn’t hear an apology,” her niece said hotly.

“I know, and I told him as much.”

Emilia smiled at that. Her aunt was her champion.

“I also told him that we would be seeing him again.”

Emilia’s smile vanished. Her aunt was a traitor.

“How could you?” Emilia said, rising to her feet as her aunt sat down on the bed. “I never want to see either of them again!”

“Emilia, you did nothing wrong,” her aunt said gently. “All you did was give him, or them, a chance to prove themselves. You listened to your head and your heart, instead of rumor and speculation. I am very proud of you for that—and I would be very sad to see you lose that. Do not be angry with yourself because they did prove themselves to be what you wanted them to be.”

“But—”

“And you mustn’t forget that they are only young men. They don’t know all the answers—you think they have them, and they think they should have them. But they do not. From what I know of the old duke, he never provided much guidance to those boys.”

Emilia opened her mouth to protest.

“No, I am not condoning their actions, particularly Phillip’s. Their tarnishing your reputation is one thing; do not let them tarnish your heart. Now, having said all that, I won our wager of whether or not he would call, and my prize will be that when he comes to call again, you will endeavor to be kind and civil.”

“Fine. Only because I doubt he’ll return.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The very next day, Devon called once more. He asked Miss Highhart if she and her aunt might like to take a walk in the park. It took her a moment to answer, and when he glanced at Lady Palmerston, her lips were pressed in a tight line as if she were determined to stifle her urge to speak. Emilia glanced at her aunt, too, and received a nod in response.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, still refusing to meet his eye.

As they strolled along the paths, arm in arm, with Lady Palmerston trailing a few paces behind them, Devon began with polite small talk to work up to his big apology. They talked of mutual acquaintances. He told her of his friendship with George Winsworth, who was his cousin, and Knightly, who had been their friend since their days at Eton. Emilia spoke of Annabelle, their friendship, and how she had been too busy with matters pertaining to her upcoming wedding to call very often. They compared their favorite places in Philadelphia. Devon’s favorite place was the docks, where he kept his offices. Emilia liked the Smithfield bookshop. He found himself putting off the apology, simply because he was enjoying their simple conversation. But as nearly a half hour passed, they turned around to return to Lady Palmerston’s, and he couldn’t put it off much longer.

“You’re being very civil, kind even, when I do not deserve it,” he said.

“Yes, I am. Please tell my aunt that.”

“Why?”

“Because I am only being kind and civil to you as payment for a wager with her that I lost,” she confessed. He couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a compliment, per se, but it indicated that Lady Palmerston thought well enough of him, and that perhaps Emilia might come to as well.

“What was the wager?”

“Whether or not you would call. It was made on the carriage ride after Cliveden.”

“You two wagered on me? Do ladies often make a habit of betting on a man’s behavior?”

“My aunt was right, it seems,” she said, laughing lightly. “Young men really are foolish. As much as they may try to pretend otherwise. Or perhaps we are foolish, too,” she continued, becoming serious. “For all I know, you could be Phillip. Perhaps the other twin really is dead, and there has been only one of you all along.”

“No, there are two of us. I hope we are not alike in character,” he said. “But there is one physical difference. Well, two actually. See here?” he asked, pointing to a small scar above his right eye. “Phillip doesn’t have that; I do.”

“And the other difference?”

“Another scar. It’s from a gunshot wound, when I fought a duel as my brother, on his behalf. I had sworn that it would be the last time I allowed our identities to be confused. I’m not pleased with myself that I failed at that.”

“You could be making all this up,” she pointed out.

“I could show you the scar, if you like. Right here in the park. But that would require the removal of several articles of clothing, and would result in our marriage by the end of the day. Would you rather just take my word for it, Miss Highhart?”

“That will be sufficient, thank you,” she said quickly. They fell into silence for a moment.

“I wonder why we never met before,” he said.

“Well, I had been in finishing school. And I had not made my debut.”

“You know, I would have liked to have met you under different circumstances.”

“It would have spared us both a lot of trouble,” she replied. He braced himself, waiting for the word “spare” to inspire that old familiar twinge of rage. But instead, he took a deep breath and let it go.

“Miss Highhart, I owe you an apology.” He paused, and they both turned to face each other.

“Yes, you do, and I’ve been waiting for it rather patiently now.”

“Huntley!” someone called out. Both of them turned to look and saw four young men with trouble written all over them.

“Are you going to finish what you started?” One of them taunted, pointing to Emilia. Her cheeks flushed, from mortification or anger, he did not know. All he knew at that moment was that their treatment of her was intolerable, and he was hot with rage. He very much wanted to pummel them all. He felt his hands form into fists, but managed to have a moment of clarity. Engaging in a public brawl was not going to help Miss Highhart’s reputation. He relaxed his hands.

“Because if you are, there is a thicket of bushes over there,” another one said, pointing to the foliage nearby. Devon waited for them to stop laughing before he spoke.

“Gentlemen,” Devon addressed them, “although, I use the term loosely. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Devon Kensington.”

“You expect us to believe that?” one of them scoffed.

“I really don’t care one way or another. Your opinions, however misguided, have no bearing on the truth.” They made a show of rolling their eyes and muttering their disbelief. By now, however, a crowd had formed. It occurred to him at that moment that all the people they had passed on their walk must have been noticing, whispering, speculating, as to what Phillip was doing with Miss Highhart. He had intended to apologize to her privately. He changed his mind.

“Before you had rudely interrupted my conversation with Miss Highhart, I was on the verge of apologizing to her.”

“Yeah, what for? Ruining the chit?” Devon ignored them; instead he turned to her and spoke, not loudly, but firmly. The small crowd that had gathered fell quiet in order to hear.

“Miss Highhart, I am sorry that I misled you, and the ton, into thinking that I was my twin, Phillip. I am sorry for the hurt feelings and confusion you suffered. I am also very sorry that you and your reputation have suffered because of my foolish, inconsiderate actions. The only consolation is that you learned of my identity before your acquaintance with my twin could progress further than a polite courtship. I hope,” Devon said, turning to the others, “that no one will think ill of Miss Highhart for making a mistake that you all have made as well.”

“I accept your apology, Devon,” she said. She did not smile, but she looked him in the eye. “Thank you.”

“ ‘I accept your apology’—that was all she said,” Devon vented, setting his glass of brandy down on the side table, and not very gently.

“So?” George asked, sipping his drink. “What else was she supposed to say?”

Devon didn’t answer right away, because George was right. What else was she supposed to have said? Part of him almost wished she had refused to see him, or rejected his apology. That way, he would have had an excuse to see her again. As it was, he felt this hollow sense of “is that all there is?” and he wanted more. But that was not a thought to be dwelt upon.

“I guess you’re right,” Devon said finally. “I acted badly, I said I was sorry, she forgave me. End of story.”

“There is something about her that gets to you,” George stated, taking another sip of his drink.

“Not really, no. As I said before, she is the daughter of my boss. My life, my future is at stake if—”

“I know, I know. You explained this all before. Your grand apology was for purely selfish reasons. But before you knew who she was . . .”

“I’ll admit to finding her attractive,” Devon said. “Anyone with adequate vision and an ounce of sense would say as much.”

“I saw the way you looked at her before,” George persisted. “And furthermore, she has made you stop running away from things as you usually do.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Devon said firmly.

“When you left Cliveden, you didn’t go straight to London, did you?”

“I got as far as the docks. And then I turned back. I did the right thing. So why are you giving me a hard time about it?” Devon said hotly, quickly—before he realized what he had confessed.

“I’m just saying, that’s all,” George said, pouring more brandy into Devon’s glass. “So you are returning to Cliveden, then.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “My father’s body may still be alive, but his mind is gone. In all the hours I spent with him, he did not recognize me once; he always thought I was Phillip.”

“I’m sorry,” George replied, knowing that the one thing Devon hated the most must hurt even more coming from his father.

“Yes, well,” Devon said, shrugging. “Before he was so ill, he had been asking after me. That must count for something. I’ll just have to return to America, content with that. Get on with my life.”

“When do you go?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“My wedding is in two weeks. Any chance I could persuade you to stay? I need someone to stand up as my best man.”

“Two weeks away, and you still haven’t selected your best man yet?” Devon replied, shaking his head in disbelief.

“This is why it is a very good thing that my fiancée and her mother are planning the rest of it. I was given one task, and I quite nearly forgot to do it.”

“I suppose I could stay. After all, someone needs to remind you to show up for the ceremony.”

Lady
Stillmore was highly suspicious when her future son-in-law proposed that she host a small, informal dinner in two days’ time. He claimed he would like to celebrate the upcoming nuptials with a few close friends, and that her hostess skills far surpass his own. She agreed, if only to satisfy her curiosity, which was further aroused when George insisted on composing the guest list himself.

She was all the more intrigued when her daughter also suspected a hidden agenda, but had no information of her own. After Winsworth left, the two Stillmore ladies spent the afternoon planning.

Devon read the invitation from George. He had told his friend that he intended to keep to himself while in London. But his friend had gone and invited him to a dinner party. Furthermore, the damned invitation had “setup” written all over it. Between George’s questioning and Miss Highhart’s friendship with his fiancée, it was a foregone conclusion that Emilia would be there.

Which was fine, because he would not.

But scrawled at the bottom of the invitation was a personal note: “I know you want to lay low, but do indulge a lovesick man, and do come meet my fiancée.”

Lovesick indeed.

For the past two days, Devon had been plagued and pestered by thoughts of Miss Emilia Highhart. He wondered what she was doing. He wondered how she was doing. Was she still mad at him? Had his apology done anything to repair her reputation? He had caught himself seriously considering calling on her.