CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Delaney blew into the Weatherstones’ parlor like a hurricane. She closed the door behind her and sagged against it as if the storm threatened to follow her in. “I’m sorry to be late,” she said, flushed and out of breath. Wild copper tendrils snaked out from beneath her sea green bonnet. “I’ve just learned some news . . . and before Bree, I might add. Though this particular time, I cannot crow about it.”
“Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t more important than Emma telling us about how the dowager tried to poison her mother,” Merribeth interjected, leaning forward to pour Delaney a cup of tea.
“Well, I don’t—” Delaney stopped, the ribbons of her bonnet hanging limply in her hand. “It’s true, then?”
Emma shook her head, holding back a sigh. The words news and rumor were essentially interchangeable within their group. “She didn’t even try. The dowager merely made a comment to my mother, suggesting that arsenic was a good way to get rid of unwanted relatives. To which my mother responded that she wouldn’t dream of taking tea with Her Grace, for surely the poison would be mixed in with the sugar. Then Her Grace said it was a splendid idea, and ordered a tea tray, heavy on the arsenic.” She bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. “The maid took her quite too literally.”
“Oh dear,” Merribeth giggled.
Delaney snorted as she sank down onto the settee.
Penelope tried to hide her smile behind her handkerchief, but her eyes were brimming with laughter. “It sounds like quite the eventful afternoon.”
Giving in to the absurdity of it all, she grinned. “Yes, and what’s worse is that I’ll have to return next week to endure it all over again. My mother said she wouldn’t miss it, no matter how fine the sun was shining through the windows.”
“The parlor?” Penelope asked.
“Yes,” Emma sighed. “Her muse is still holding the parlor hostage.”
Placing two macaroons on her plate, Merribeth grinned. “I hope the dress is worth it.”
“Oh, it is,” she assured them, wishing that they’d all have a chance to see it, but knowing they wouldn’t.
“What of Lord Rathburn? Bree was told he nearly burst through the doors to ensure you were not being tortured . . .” Delaney said, her own story apparently forgotten.
“Or poisoned,” Merribeth added.
“Another exaggeration,” she said, hoping the twinge of disappointment she felt didn’t come out in her tone. “He was in the house and was kind enough to escort my mother and me to our carriage. That is all.”
Penelope clucked her tongue and let out a breath, not hiding her annoyance. However, Emma refused to entertain her friend’s notions of how Rathburn held a secret tendre for her. That was merely wishful thinking on both their parts, though more so on hers than on Penelope’s, she’d guess.
She’d spent far too much time wishing lately, and unfortunately, it came out in her painting, which was getting harder and harder to hide.
“It was then that he asked you to the theater, right?” Delaney asked, her cautious tone instantly drawing her attention, as well as everyone else’s. Delaney McFarland was never one to beat around the bush.
Feeling a strange chill of foreboding settle around her, Emma lowered her needlework to her lap. “No, he never asked. It was arranged by his mother. We’ll be watching Othello from the duke’s box.”
Merribeth beamed. “Oh, how lovely. I’ve heard wonderful things about the production.”
Delaney’s expression remained unchanged. “What was Rathburn’s reaction to this?”
Emma thought back for a moment and then frowned. Actually, he had seemed a trifle pale. Then again, she’d attributed that to the mention of the wedding being less than three weeks away. They were running out of time to gain his inheritance and call off the wedding.
However, her friend was acting peculiar and no longer meeting her eyes. “Delaney, is there something you wanted to tell me?”
Delaney sipped her tea and shrugged. “It’s only a rumor.”
Strange. Before, it had been news. Now, that peculiar chill wrapped around her like a tightly cinched corset.
“I overheard it from Elena Mallory outside of Haversham’s.” They all frequented Mr. Haversham’s draper shop. In fact, a mix up in their embroidery orders—for they all lived on Danbury Lane—was how they’d come to know one another in the first place. Setting their orders to rights had brought them an instant bond of friendship and had started their needlework circle.
Elena Mallory also frequented Haversham’s. However, she never shared rumors of pleasant occurrences.
Emma braced herself.
“If you keep us waiting any longer, we’re going to send for your sister,” Merribeth scolded. “She would have told us before she had the chance to draw a breath.”
“You told me to wait,” Delaney blinked innocently, as if she were suddenly possessed by a heavenly host. They all knew better. “So, I waited.”
Penelope cleared her throat and tapped her foot on the soft carpet. “And now we’re waiting . . .”
“So testy. Did it ever occur to you that the rumor might be of a delicate nature?”
Oh dear. This couldn’t be good. Nonetheless, they all leaned forward marginally and held their collective breaths.
Delaney set down her cup and smoothed her skirts. “Once your outing to the theater became common knowledge, so did talk of Lord Rathburn’s previous . . .” She cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder to the door. “Previous . . . activities with the actress who plays Desdemona.”
Emma inhaled sharply. Lances of heat pricked every inch of her skin as if she’d fallen into a bed of thistles. All at once, anger spiked within her. The sensation felt hot and uncomfortable . . . and she absolutely refused to identify it as jealousy. After all, the feeling was completely unfounded. She knew the real reason for their sham courtship. She knew Rathburn saw her only as a means to an end. And she shouldn’t allow herself to forget it for a single moment.
“The theater will be packed to the gills and every eye on you, Rathburn, and . . . Lily Lovetree, whom it is said still pines for him.”
“Delaney, really,” Penelope chided, and placed her hand on Emma’s back, patting her as if she were a child. “Did you feel it necessary to add the last bit?”
Merribeth reached over to pat Emma’s other shoulder. “The first bit was bad enough.”
Emma sat up straight, nodded to both Penelope and Merribeth in reassurance, but politely shrugged them off. She didn’t want their pity. “I know of Rathburn’s reputation. It’s hardly a secret that he kept a mistress.”
Although why it bothered her to hear confirmation, not to mention the woman’s name, she didn’t know. Yet, against her better sense, a terrible, yearning twinge stole into her heart. If Lily Lovetree pined for him, then did he feel the same way?
Penelope sighed and shook her head. “I hope you realize that the only reason people are saying such cruel things is because the entire ton is green with envy over your love match. Elena Mallory most of all.”
It was bad news. The worst sort of news, though her friends had no idea how detrimental it was for Rathburn. If the ton was abuzz about his prior involvement—at least she hoped it was prior—then it could spoil his chance to win the dowager’s approval. If that happened, then he’d no longer need Emma’s help. And if that happened, then he might very well seek an heiress to marry after all. The thought gave her a terrible headache. Her stomach twisted in knots at the emptiness she suddenly felt inside.
“Of course,” she said, trying to sound like she believed it, at least to the others who didn’t know about her bargain.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Delaney looked crestfallen.
“How could you not have?” This time it was Emma who reached across the table to comfort her friend, taking her hand. “For the first time in an age, you were the proprietor of gossip concerning your friend, and all before Bree caught wind of it. I don’t blame you. In fact, I’m grateful to know why everyone will be staring at me tonight.”
Even so, the displeasure she felt at being the object of pity and curiosity paled in comparison to the burning jealousy that erupted at the thought of being in the presence of a woman who’d spent time in Rathburn’s arms and tasting the pleasure of his kiss.
“Never fear,” Delaney offered, squeezing her hand in return. “Rathburn couldn’t care a fig for a harlot like her.”
“I’m certain he won’t even look her way this evening,” Merribeth promised, placing her hand on top as if they were the Knights of Camelot. Penelope was the next to proclaim her fealty.
However, the chorus of “never fears” and “I’m certains” failed to ease her mind. She didn’t want to see the woman who’d possessed every bit of Rathburn. The woman who didn’t fear losing the dowager’s approval. The woman who didn’t hide what she was for the sake of blending into society.
It wasn’t fair. Emma was only now beginning to realize how much she stood to lose, and how much she wanted to believe Rathburn could be hers to keep.
Persevering in the face of misery, she smiled at them all. “You’re right, I’m certain.”
“So, tell us about the dress,” Merribeth said, the first to resettle herself in her seat and resume her embroidery. “I’ve heard there are over a hundred pounds of pearls to be sewn on.”
“I heard it was two hundred,” Delaney said with a needle between her teeth.
Not to be outdone, Penelope interjected, “I heard three.”
“And I heard,” Emma added cheekily, “that it will take a coach and four to drag me down the aisle.”