The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,48
clear, and remember, he is your nemesis.
Granted, a nicer nemesis than she’d taken him for. But still a nemesis all the same.
With that, Emma reached for the latch to let herself out. Olivia’s brother swiftly covered it, intercepting her efforts. “D-do you care to talk it out one more time?” he croaked. “Perhaps we . . . can come up with some other idea?”
Olivia slapped his fingers. “Oh, hush. We didn’t come up with anything.” She gestured between Emma, Isla, and herself. “We did. Now, if we may continue?” Even in the darkness of the carriage, Olivia’s eyes lit as only an angry sister’s eyes could.
“Yes, yes.” The more-loyal-than-they-deserved Owen promptly sat back in his seat. “Of course, forgive me. Carry on. As you were.”
Olivia peeked out the curtains at the impressive stucco, center-unit structure occupied by one Lord Scarsdale. “Are we even certain he is home?”
“If he’s not, I’ll wait,” Emma murmured, peering over Olivia’s shoulder. But for the sconces flanking the black lacquer doorway and the hint of light radiating from the foyer windowpanes, Charles’s townhouse had been largely doused in darkness.
“And you’ve prepared everything you intend to say?” her friend asked . . . for a third time since they’d set out.
“Yes.” She’d carefully scripted every part of her plan, and every word she’d say.
“I’m still not certain how you’re sure you’ll gain entry?” Isla asked with skepticism that could come only from a young lady’s naivete.
For Emma well knew how to gain entry into the household of a gentleman such as the roguish Earl of Scarsdale. All she need do was knock on the front door, gain entry, and . . . Risk your reputation and scandal, all in the name of boldness, a voice taunted at the back of her mind. Nay, it was more than that. In the name of the Mismatch Society, the future and success of their organization. She was fighting for their survival, and fighting for her members.
Owen cleared his throat. “You do know friends generally talk friends out of risky escapades?” he pointed out, edging away from Olivia before she could deliver another blow.
“Ah,” Isla said. Holding a finger aloft, she waved it in the direction of the fourth member of their party. “But I am a sister, and sisters cheer sisters on through every boldness.”
Olivia favored her brother with a glare. “And I may not share Emma’s blood, but we are as close as sisters. Isn’t that right, Emma?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine. However, if I may,” he began, earning groans from all but Emma as, every bit the solicitor analytical in his business, he launched into a lecture. “I should like to point out—”
“No,” Olivia and Isla said in unison.
“One,” he continued over that interruption, as he ticked up a finger. “The risk to Emma’s reputation.” That for so long had been something she’d cared very much about. How much of her life, however, had been wasted worrying about what others might say, instead of focusing on what she truly wanted . . . and deserved? “Two, Scarsdale is a terrible chap. A libertine. A rake.”
“Those are the same,” Olivia pointed out.
Owen nodded so quickly his spectacles slipped all the way off his face. As he spoke, he fished about for them.
Bending down, Emma retrieved the wire pair and, cleaning off the smudged lenses, returned them to his face.
His cheeks went red. “Many thanks. Where was I?”
“You were wishing me the best of luck?”
His smile dipped, and he blinked in confusion. “No. No. I don’t think it was that. At all,” he said, with his endearing inability to recognize teasing. “I think I was attempting to convince you this is a rubbish id-aahhh.” Owen let out a quiet groan as his sister caught him hard in the shins.
“Do hush, Owen,” she admonished. “You have one purpose here and one purpose only—”
“Protection,” he muttered, rubbing at his injured leg. “I know. I know.” Olivia’s brother, a de facto friend of Emma’s over the years, looked past his younger sister and to Emma. “However, I would be remiss if I did not add my voice of reason to the mix.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Olivia and Isla said at the same time.
“You are not of the same mix,” Olivia added.
Owen bristled, his glass spectacles slipping again over the bridge of his slightly too-narrow nose. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re not a woman, Owen.” Olivia sighed her exasperation. “You are merely a stand-in for potential footpads and other unanticipated dangers that we might encounter.”