Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection

Emmaline nodded. “Rafe is a good, sound person, boy or man, I’m sure. He may be somewhat discommoded to see how his sisters have blossomed in his absence, and I don’t envy him having to ride herd on his mother once she decides she is now the dowager duchess—but, no, I have no serious qualms for the title now that it is in Rafe’s hands.”

She put down her cup. “John...about what happened in the gardens...”

He shook his head slowly. “No, let’s not talk about that now. You’ve had a long and extremely trying day, one way or another, and I certainly wasn’t any great help to you.”

“I feel as if I’ve just been told to take myself off to bed,” she said to him, smiling. “All right. And I’ll have that letter for you in the morning. Oh, and I suppose there are others I’ll need to write. To some distant aunts...perhaps the newspapers?”

“Tomorrow, Emmaline. There is nothing you can do anymore tonight that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Do I look that exhausted?”

“No, Emmaline. You look that vulnerable. And I’m not as strong as I thought myself. Not since I kissed you, at any rate.”

He watched as hot color invaded her cheeks once again. “Oh. Well, then, all right. It has been a long day.”

“Until tomorrow, which is already much too far away,” he told her, not daring to kiss her hand because he knew neither of them would be able to stop with such a simple, formal gesture.

He watched her walk, chin held high, toward the foyer, and then drank the rest of his wine, resisting the temptation to then fling the glass into the fireplace.

What in bloody hell had he done out there in the gardens? The woman had just had a terrible shock. Had he really believed that seducing her was the answer to all her problems?

And lying to her? How was that helping her?

His deception had begun easily enough, but there had been ample opportunity for him to correct her when she addressed him as captain.

She’d been impressed to hear he was a captain in the Royal Navy, that he had, like her nephew, gone to war to defend his country. And all of that was true enough.

She’d also felt comfortable with him, possibly because he was, to her mind, a relatively simple man. She’d felt free with him. Free to tell him the truth, bare her troubled soul to him. Free to lean on him in her time of need.

Free to let him kiss her.

She was Lady Emmaline Daughtry; daughter of a duke, sister of a duke, aunt to a duke. There would be no real social consequences for her if she kissed a captain in the Royal Navy. Kissed him...or more.

John poured himself a second glass of wine, preparing to settle himself in for at least another few hours of thinking, and most probably drinking. He had to tell her. He couldn’t put off telling her.

How would he tell her?

“Your Grace?”

John’s head turned toward the door before he could stop himself, and he watched as Grayson entered the main saloon, to bow in front of him.

“Excuse me, Grayson? That’s Captain, not Your Grace.”

“No, Your Grace, it’s not. I took it upon myself to personally unpack your bag. There were letters inside. I left them tied as they were, but could not avoid reading what few lines I saw. You are His Grace, Captain Jonathan Alastair, Duke of Warrington. I’ve taken the liberty of removing your belongings to the large bedchamber just to the left at the top of the landing, Your Grace.”

“Lady Emmaline?”

“Doesn’t know, no, Your Grace. May I ask why?”

“I was just sitting here asking myself the same question, Grayson. She seemed...she seemed pleased that I served in the navy.”

Grayson nodded, transformed from the stiff and stern butler to the sort of old family retainer who had come to look upon his employers as well-loved children. “Her ladyship is very admiring of those who chose to defend this country from that rascal Bonaparte, yes, Your Grace.” The butler bowed, turned to leave, and then turned back to look at John, his expression stern once more. “She is also, begging Your Grace’s pardon, quite fond of honesty and truthfulness.”

“Yes, thank you, Grayson. Lady Emmaline is, indeed, a very truthful, forthright person. She deserves nothing less in return.”

Grayson bowed again. “As you say, Your Grace.”

CHAPTER FIVE (#u25973cb7-38b6-5eee-b0b0-28ad01a1b954)

...SUCH SAD AND shocking news. I imagine you reading this wherever you are, and marveling at how quickly lives can change. In truth, I have been thinking much the same thing ever since Captain Alastair walked into the gardens of Ashurst Hall this afternoon.

Emmaline lifted her pen and stared at her words. Why had she written them? She should tear up this letter as well, and put it with the other discarded efforts she had begun and then abandoned. But it would make no difference if she began again; no matter how she tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, John Alastair kept creeping back into her thoughts, and onto the page of the letter to her nephew.

She dipped the pen once more and continued:

You are, of course, needed home as soon as you are able, but I understand the demands of your service, and wish to assure you that we are all quite safe here, and capable of holding things together until you find it possible to return. I ask only that you write to us as often as you can, and that you allow Mr. Coates to be of any and all assistance to you.

Rafe, you will make an exemplary Duke of Ashurst. You hold my deepest confidence and blessings.

Yrs. In Greatest Affection,

Emmaline

Before she could change her mind, Emmaline sanded the page, folded it and then used the Ashurst seal to press the warmed wax onto the folded page. There, it was done. She’d arrange for funds to be given to Mr. Coates, who would carry them with him to Paris, so that Rafe would not feel penny-pinched as he made arrangements for his transport back to England.

She kept the letter separate from the small stack that would go out with the morning post, informing a few distant aunts of Charlton’s death, and then reluctantly added the letter to Helen, Rafe’s mother, to them. She could not in good conscience delay sending that particular letter, especially since the London newspapers were bound to make a huge announcement in the next few days.

After all, it wasn’t every day that a duke and both his heirs drowned in the Channel thanks to their own utter stupidity.

“Stop it,” Emmaline muttered under her breath as she rose from the small writing desk in her bedchamber and turned to contemplate the mantel clock. She was surprised to see that it had only gone past midnight. She’d hoped for more, perhaps that it was already after three, or even four.

How long before she would see John again at the breakfast table? Knowing she would not sleep, could not sleep, she believed the hours between now and then could be more easily measured in months.

In any event, it was no longer her birthday, although she could still consider it such until the sun rose in the morning. The next time she marked her birthday, it would also mark the day she’d learned that her brother and nephews had died. How odd. Which was worse, she wondered: To grow older every year, or to be reminded how many years it had been since those deaths?

“If they were going to die, anyway, they could have been just a little bit more considerate,” Emmaline told her reflection in the dressing table mirror as she pinched at her cheeks to bring color into them and then checked the neckline of her ridiculously virginal white night rail and dressing gown.

And then, before her better self, her saner self, could talk her out of it, Emmaline headed for the door to the hallway, intent on spending her twenty-ninth birthday thinking back over a much nicer memory of her twenty-eighth.

She headed for the west wing, hoping her courage wouldn’t desert her, but halted before she got to the center staircase, having seen light peeking out from beneath the double doors to the bedchamber reserved for their highest-ranking guests. The prince regent himself had stayed in the chamber twice, this last time breaking a fine antique chair just by sitting his bulk in it.

Why would Grayson put John in this chamber? It wasn’t like the butler to stray from the strict rules of social protocol that made up such things. Captain Alastair should have been put in the west wing, and probably at the end of the corridor at that, right next to the servant stairs.

Perhaps Grayson had taken a liking to John. Although Grayson rarely took a liking to anyone.

And what did it matter where Grayson had put John, or why? She told herself that all she was doing now was standing in a drafty hallway, possibly to be seen by any servant who might be up and about for some reason. Either she was going to do something for herself or she was going to die old and dry and with a regret that had her sighing into her teacup while her relatives murmured behind her back: “Poor old Emmy, unlucky in love, you know.”

She raised her hand, hesitated as she took one last, deep steadying breath, and then closed her fist and rapped her knuckles on one of the doors.