Emma and the Earl

Unbelievably tangled, Brice thought with an inner groan. Almost schizophrenic. Yet for everything he’d left out in telling her about himself, he’d revealed something more important, in many ways more true. That was at the core of his dilemma, in fact: one of the main reasons Brice was reluctant to tell Emma who he really was, was that in his letters he’d been free to be the man he really wanted to be but couldn’t. He’d been light, fanciful at times, even funny. He’d never gone into the subject of his duties, his public persona, the historical estates he had to maintain, the international company he had to run. The heavy weight of his responsibilities lifted every time he picked up the pen as John.

Emma would be hugely disappointed to learn that the man she’d been writing to all this time was a serious, duty-minded aristocrat, who might have dreamed of dancing in the fountain in front of the Ritz on paper, but who would never even consider such a thing in his real life.

When John spoke again, he was very serious. “You have to be very careful about getting involved with someone, remember.”

“I know.”

“Unless you’re ready to tell your mother the truth about Caroline.…”

Caroline Fortescue was the daughter of Brice’s father’s business partner. Though both men had passed away several years back, there was an expectation among remaining family members, most notably Brice’s mother, that Brice and Caroline would marry.

It made sense as a business merger: the budding Fortescue microchip technology together with the Palliser telecommunications technology would dominate the market. Their parents thought it was “a good match,” and they’d been heavy-handed in their persuasion ever since Caroline and Brice had been in their early twenties. Finally, for the sake of living in peace with their parents, the two had decided to pretend to agree with the plan until they’d found what they really wanted. They were very sure of one thing though, they would never marry each other.

Brice groaned. “If I tell my mother that Caroline and I have no real intentions of getting married, she’ll go on a matchmaking campaign the likes of which would have made Wellington quake with fear.” He shook his head. “I’m not up for that just yet.”

Brice’s parents had made “a good match,” and as a result Brice had grown up with cold, distant parents who had more regard for appearances than they did for each other. Now his mother was fully willing to extend that legacy to him. Living alone, he’d found out at age twenty, was a far warmer experience than living with two people who led such pointedly separate lives. Perhaps when two people loved, living together was something different than he had experienced. But unconditional love was for other people. He’d never experience it—how could he? His very name created conditions that would be difficult to live with, not the least of which was the occasional public scrutiny.

“Until you say otherwise, and firmly,” John said, “Caroline is a consideration.”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’ll have to let this Emma know,” John persisted. “Before she gets dreamy ideas about herself and you and inadvertently creates havoc for you both.”

That was one worry he didn’t have, thank goodness. “Emma has no romantic interest in me whatsoever.” Brice reflected on this relief for a moment, watching the silent sway of the trees in a gentle wind, then snapped himself out of it. “So that’s not a consideration. She need never know.”

John didn’t look convinced. “If you’re sure…?”

“I’m sure.” He spoke with complete confidence. “So what about it? Can I use your house while she’s here? You’re going to be gone anyway, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then it will be perfect. I have to get away from here.” Brice leaned against the windowsill and looked out. The lawn fanned out a long way to the wrought-iron fence bordering the quiet street in South Kensington. Though it was a sunny warm day, no one was out. No one was ever out.

He couldn’t invite Emma here, even if he wanted to. It would be like a big wet towel on her vacation. The neighborhood was austere, full of people like him—people who lived quiet, shadowed lives. He wondered if anyone had ever really had fun here. Was it even possible? He doubted it. He had to use John’s home for Emma’s visit, just in case she insisted on seeing where he lived. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.”

“I know.” John looked at him in silence for a moment, then smiled. “All right. If you insist on going through with this, I don’t see how I can protect you from yourself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of three keys. He dropped them onto the end table with a clang. “Now that I think of it, perhaps this is just what you need to get out of your slump.”

Brice looked at him sharply. “What slump?”

John gave him a patient look. “The one that’s made you the most grim, serious man in the country. The one that you’ve been in for the last—how old are you?”

“You’re exaggerating. I’m not that bad.”

“No? The Independent recently referred to you as a living heart donor.”

Brice grimaced. “That’s a very old joke. I would have thought they could do better than that.” He didn’t want to reflect on any nugget of truth behind the statement.

John shrugged. “You’ve got to admit, you haven’t been the most jubilant fellow in the world. Maybe this will lighten you up some. Now, about the house. Sarah’s leaving for Venice on the second of July. I’ll be following by a day. After that, the place is yours.”

“Excellent.”

They were interrupted by a discreet knock at the door. A maid entered holding a silver tray with a special delivery letter on it. She extended this to Brice, who took it from the tray and nodded a dismissal.

Brice glanced at the envelope and felt a sense of dread. He tore open the letter, read it, and felt the blood leave his face. “Good God.”

“What is it?”

“Trouble. This just came from Sheldale House on Guernsey.” Brice shook his head and held the letter out to John.

“‘Dear Sir,’” John read aloud. “Blah, blah, blah, ‘will be in England between July fifth and twelfth. If there is any way possible that I could tour the gardens on my trip,’ blah, blah, blah, ‘send word at’ blah, blah, blah…” He looked at Brice and raised his eyebrows. “So?”

“Look at the signature.”

John looked. “Emma Lawrence,” he read, then his mouth dropped open. “This?” He pointed at the letter. “Same woman?”

Brice nodded. “She must have sent it there the same day she wrote to me here in London.” He took the paper from John and wadded it into a ball. It had been years since their correspondence had anything to do with the gardens at Sheldale. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might still be interested in seeing them.

“So what’s the big problem?” John asked.

“The problem is that she can’t go near the place without discovering who I am.”

“You could have the staff take down all the portraits and photos,” John suggested.

“And ask them to pretend I’m someone else, that they don’t recognize me?” Brice scoffed. “Be serious.”

“It’s not as though you have to go with her, you know. Send her along to look the place over and see her when she gets back.”

“And run the risk of her seeing something or hearing something that will give me away and I won’t even know it?” The possibilities made his mind reel. “I can’t take that chance.”

A long silence hung between them.

“What are you going to do?” John asked at last.

“I’m not going to answer.” Brice expelled a long breath. Not answering went against every fiber of his responsible being. “It’s the only thing I can do. The earl is out of commission for the time being.”

“Until she sees you,” John pointed out. “Obviously she’s a bit more familiar with ‘the earl’ than you thought. She managed to find your address.”

“Any resourceful person could have done that,” Brice said. “It doesn’t mean she knows what I look like. She probably thinks I’m a doddering old man.”

“What about when she gets here? With Palliser Telecommunications going public, your picture has been in the newspaper several times this week already.”

He knew. “That’s local news,” he said, more to himself than to John. “They wouldn’t know about that in America. At any rate, I’m quite sure she won’t be reading the financial pages while she’s here.”

Emma stumbled out of customs at Heathrow Airport, thanks to slick new shoes and a polished linoleum floor, and almost fell right into the newsagent’s kiosk, knocking one of the papers to the floor in several pieces. “I’m sorry,” she said, stooping to gather them together again. A headline caught her eye: Palliser Telecommunications Prices Skyrocket as Economy Rises. Palliser! The very man she wanted to see. She picked that section of the paper up to look closer.

“You going to pay for that?” the seller asked sharply, startling her.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She started to reach for her purse, then remembered that she hadn’t changed any of her money yet. “Sorry, I don’t have any cash…” Under the man’s dark scrutiny, she reassembled the newspaper and handed it back to him. “Jeez, welcome to England,” she said, under her breath.