she was on the verge of mortification. She raised her eyebrows at Alice, but the latter did not meet her gaze.
‘Such a charming lady, is the countess,’ Alice said. ‘‘twas a sorry sight to see how she still mourns the loss of her nephews.’
Ceastre’s teacup clattered in its saucer.
‘Alice,’ Emilia breathed, but the lady sipped her own tea demurely, and quite obviously without remorse.
The earl’s green eyes were troubled. ‘Was she very affected?’ he asked Emilia.
Setting down her own cup and saucer, Emilia gathered her wits. There was nothing for it; she must be honest. ‘It was clear that she felt the loss of you and your brother keenly. She raised the subject herself, you understand. As though it must often be in her thoughts.’
Ceastre set down his teacup and leaned back, turning his face and putting a hand over his mouth as he rested an elbow on the arm of the chair.
‘What a tribute to her ladyship,’ Lieutenant Roberts said. ‘It speaks to her good character, that she feels the loss of her nephews despite the advantage it brought her.’
Ceastre made a noise of distress.
‘Really, old chap, you should take it as good news,’ Roberts continued. ‘At least you’ve nothing to fear from her.’
Emilia frowned. ‘Might you? From other members of the family?’
The earl glanced at her then, and her pulse quickened. He never said anything about suspecting members of the Emery household.
‘Emilia!’
It was her father’s voice, coming from above.
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured.
Mrs. Gale popped her head into the drawing room. ‘Never you mind, Miss Whitmore, I’ll see to Mr. Whitmore.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Gale,’ Emilia replied, but her fingers curled into the fabric of the white, ruffled walking dress she still wore.
‘Is that Mr. Whitmore calling?’ Lord Ceastre asked, his brow furrowed.
With a sigh, Emilia took up her teacup again, resting it on her hand. ‘It is, sir.’
‘Emilia!’ Papa cried again.
The heat was built along her spine. She had a sip in hopes of assuaging it.
‘I say, old chap...’ Roberts muttered.
‘Yes, of course,’ Ceastre replied. ‘We shall take our leave at once.’
Everyone stood. ‘I suppose we must meet again, that I might tell you the rest of what happened during our visit to Ceastre Manor,’ Emilia said, looking at the earl uncertainly.
He gazed down at her, his hands worrying the brim of the fine hat he held. ‘Yes, I think that is quite necessary.’
They stared into each other’s eyes. Emilia felt incapable of looking away.
Meeting him again is folly, she thought weakly. I must simply tell him of my plans to return to the estate, and say that I shan’t see him again before I have done so.
But she couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave now, and not seeing him again until she had acquired the papers he sought. It would be at least a day.
A day! Oh Emilia, you are besotted.
I cannot help it. Let me but spend as much time as I can in his presence, before’tis all over. Once I have done my part, there will no longer be any reason to meet with him at all.
Her heart tightened at the thought.
This is a distraction. A will-o-the-wisp guiding you from your path to an advantageous marriage. You shall become lost in a forest of misfortune...possibly ruin.
But even knowing this, she could not stop herself from saying, ‘Perhaps at Portman Square Garden again?’
‘I will count the minutes, Miss Whitmore.’
Emilia flushed and cast her eyes down.
So would she.
Chapter 11
‘Did you know Mr. Whitmore well in your time as the earl?’ Roberts asked as they rode home. He was stroking his moustache thoughtfully.
‘As well as one can know a friend of one’s father,’ Max replied. ‘You asked about him at the club?’
‘Indeed, just as you requested. I spoke with several gentlemen.’
‘And?’
Roberts looked up, accessing memory. ‘A Mr. Bircher was an intimate friend, years ago, I gather. I spoke with him at some length. He said Whitmore has been too ill for any socializing for the past two years. The last time he saw him was when the Whitmores first came to London at the time, and Bircher paid them a call to welcome them. Whitmore was well enough to receive him once, but no more after that.’
‘They came to London two years ago?’ Max said.
‘Yes, from what I pieced together, they spent a year in Bath before that,’ Roberts said. ‘Another fellow, Gardner was his name, had many opinions about how Whitmore’s care has been amiss, not the least of which is that they left Bath too