To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,92

to be Max’s loyal friend.

Miss Whitmore knew the truth, but she was no more than a lady whose family was on the verge of financial ruin, something far too many people seemed to be aware of. No, Max needed another witness. Someone whose account would be seen as unimpeachable. Someone from a highly respected family, whose good will was highly sought after.

His eyes darting about, Max finally spied the person he had chosen: Miss Augusta Emma d’Este. He could only hope she would be as friendly now as she had been an hour past.

Would the ton question her reliability, as young as she was? It was her only flaw as his unknowing emissary. Her account of Charlotte’s confessions might be regarded as nothing more than fanciful girlish piffle.

But who will dare say so? Who will risk offending Miss d’Este and annoying His Majesty the King, by extension?

Making haste, Max crossed through the crowd and came to stand beside Miss d’Este.

‘My lady, if you would be so generous, I very much desire to share another turn around the ballroom with you,’ Max said, bowing to her.

Miss d’Este, who still stood with her redheaded companion, sighed and then gave her friend a quick look of glee. ‘Why Mr. Emery, what a nice surprise!’ she said, and took his proffered hand.

I must take the risk, Max thought. She is my best hope.

It was known that Lady Charlotte Emery was Miss d’Este’s friend. That could work against him, or in his favour. Some would say that Miss d’Este and Charlotte must have quarrelled, and Miss d’Este sought to ruin Charlotte’s good name in retaliation. But from the little he had heard said of the king’s granddaughter, she was not thought of as petty. He hoped, instead, that everyone would see her repudiation of Charlotte as the act of a well-bred young lady who had truly discovered a shocking truth about her one-time friend.

Max smiled at Miss d’Este as the musicians struck up a waltz. As much as he had wished to avoid the intimacy of this dance an hour before, now he welcomed the freedom it allowed him. It suited Max’s purposes splendidly. He whirled the lady around the room, moving ever closer to the windows, which had been opened to allow the circulation of air once the ballroom became too stifling. Once he reached his goal, he began to guide her to dance within earshot of the area.

All that remained was for Roberts to bring Charlotte close enough, and then the challenge was bringing the pieces of the puzzle together all at once. The waltz must end and Max must guide Miss d’Este to take air at the window just as Roberts succeeded in drawing the confession from Charlotte’s lips.

Glancing out, Max saw that Roberts and Charlotte were making their way closer.

Perfect, Max thought. Now’tis just a matter of good timing.

***

‘Good heavens, Alice, I thought I had lost you forever,’ Emilia exclaimed when she came upon her friend, who had tucked herself away almost behind a large vase and bouquet in the corner of the ballroom.

‘Emilia!’ Alice cried. ‘What a joy to be found.’

They grabbed each other’s hands and Emilia gave her friend a genuine smile. ‘Dear Alice. Have you been very unhappy, waiting here?’

‘Oh no,’ Alice said. ‘Would you believe it? I danced with a viscount. Me, Alice Bromley, daughter of a baker, with Viscount Lisle, son of the Earl of Talbot. A viscount!’

Emilia could not help but laugh, her heart was so joyful on Alice’s behalf. ‘Leave it to you to charm a viscount ahead of me.’

‘Oh, but do not tell me you have been unsuccessful, my dear?’ Alice said.

Emilia sighed. ‘I have been distracted,’ she confessed. At that, she relayed the events since Maximilian Emery appeared and rescued her from Mr. Dassel.

‘Lord Ceastre!’ a man’s voice barked behind Emilia, interrupting her narrative and startling her. She turned to see a young man with cherubic blond curls hurrying to an older gentleman’s side. For a moment Emilia did not recognize him, and then her mind placed him, much to her astonishment.

‘Why, it’s Edward Emery,’ she breathed. ‘How he has aged, in only three years.’

‘Edward Emery?’ Alice said. ‘The current Earl of Ceastre?’

‘The very one,’ Emilia said, and she took Alice’s hand and led her to step closer to the gentleman.

‘Lord Ceastre!’ the cherubic-haired man exclaimed again.

‘Why, Lord Ferriston, whatever is the matter?’ Edward Emery replied. Emilia could not bring herself to think of him as ‘Lord Ceastre’ or ‘the earl,’ for