Sally begged off the afternoon treasure hunt the fourth day of an interminable house party, claiming she had letters to write. Which was not untrue. Currently, she was sitting at the table under the window in the bedchamber she had been assigned, her little travelling desk open and a fresh sheet of paper headed with her name and direction and the date, followed by the familiar salutation:
Dear David,
Dear David, what?
Dear David, I am bored to death with ceaseless house parties populated by handsome men who claim to be slain by my very ordinary eyes (though they breathe quite well for cadavers) and shallow people who talk of nothing but fashion and flirting and frivolities. I am so bored, I could scream.
At least dear Emma and Henry were here to suffer with her, though suffering more than Sally, whose ducal forebears protected her from the snobbery of others, for neither of their backgrounds were so illustrious, nor dowries so impressive. Lady Tarrington had not invited any of Sally's cousins. Undoubtedly, she thought them competition for her two younger sons, one of whom was attempting to court Sally, with Henry as his second choice, and the other, whose first choice was Henry, Sally the fall-back.
Thank goodness three of her favourite cousins—Elf, Longford, and Stocke—were only half an hour's ride away at Longford Court, though when they called every afternoon, they showed a distressing tendency to behave like the rest of the preposterous flirtatious gentlemen.
Perhaps she should write:
Dear David, how can I, this side of good manners, tell a young man who has not declared his intentions that I have no interest in him, and he should turn his attention elsewhere? My supposed suitors can all go to the Devil. Except you, David.
Sally grinned at the thought of her snooping father reading that statement, but then sighed. She wasn't even quite sure he was a suitor anymore, given his unsavoury activities. His exams were in six weeks, but Aunt Bella said Uncle Wellbridge was not inclined to allow him home for Christmas. Instead, Toad would leave Paris immediately for Marseilles, to begin the practical part of the course, running Aunt Bella's shipyard there.
Perhaps Sally should remind Uncle Wellbridge of the story of the prodigal son, and suggest he fatten a calf. Yuletide was eleven long weeks from now, but she could far more easily bear the rest of this house party, and the blasted little Season in London, if she knew she would see Toad at the end of it.
She could even bear her suitors, and the ones who flirted with no business doing so: the married men, or the ones with no interest in marriage.
Men like Lord Athol Soddenfeld, Aunt Bella's niece Julia's husband, whose drunken remarks were just a hair this side of insulting. What a pig that man was. And poor Lady Athol, who covered her misery and embarrassment with an air of ennui, sneering condescension toward anyone less well-born, and fervent attention to whatever card game she was losing. She was very aware of being the Marquess of Firthley's daughter, the Duke of Wellbridge's niece, and the Marquess of Prestwood's sister-in-law, even if she had been compromised by a fortune-hunting sot in her first Season.
Lady Athol was not the only member of the party to look down on Emma and Henry, and their chaperone, Henry's mother, Antonia, Lady St James, who had charge of all three girls. Though the widow of a baronet, her antecedents were far less illustrious than suited this socially conscious crowd.
Oh, for the power of Papa's raised eyebrow! He would soon deflate any silly female—niece of his best friend or not—who dared snub any member of his broadly defined family, into which he warmly welcomed Lady St. James, her daughter, and Lady Emma.
The house party I am attending is rather flat. Emma, Henry, and I came with Henry's mother, Lady St James, since Mama was not well, and it was not until we arrived that we discovered we knew few of those attending, and wished to know even fewer.
Fortunately, we are not far from Longford Court, and my cousins Elfingham, Longford, and Stocke ride over often, though Lady Tarrington is less than delighted to rely on the governess and the vicar's two daughters to balance the table.
Your cousin and her husband are attending the party. I am sorry to say it of a relative of yours, David, but I find my own cousins far better company than Lady Athol Soddenfield. Lord Athol is—
Before she could answer the knock on her door, it opened to reveal Henry, half-supporting Emma, whose cheeks were wet and eyes red and swollen with crying.
"Emma, whatever is the matter?" Sally set her desk aside, and hurried to help her to a chair. Emma's shoulders quaked under Sally arm and Henry's comforting hand, long shudders wracking her body. Sally met Henry's concerned gaze.
"What happened to her?"
"Lord Athol." Henry nearly spat the name.
"Oh, Emma. No. Did he hurt you? Did he..."
Emma took a deep shaky breath. "That manoeuvre you learned from Lord Abersham works very well, Sally." Her giggle was watery. "He showed no further ardour."
"Indeed," Henry agreed. "When Mr Tarrington and I heard the scream and came running, Lord Athol was curled up on the ground, clutching at his—er—his lower torso, whimpering."
"It was Lord Athol who screamed, not I, I assure you," Emma informed them, but her bravado dissolved the next moment. "He said no one would ever marry me because of my mother, and I would end up as someone's mistress, so it might as well be him. Is that what everyone thinks, Sally?"
Lord Athol is a swine, David. Neither he, nor others like him, go beyond the line with me, for I am the only daughter of a powerful duke, call another duke Grandpapa, and claim still another as godfather. Even a drunken fool would hesitate to offend me. Nor do I have much to fear from Society's cats; the equally powerful duchesses in my corner ensure I could dance in a fountain in my shift, and the arbiters of polite behaviour would call me 'spirited' and 'creative.'
Even Henry, though much more bound to propriety than I, is safe from improper advances. Her Wakefield grandfather and uncles are rightly feared, if only for their knowledge of half the secrets in London, and the fact no one can guess which half. It is also well-known they will maim, even kill, in pursuit of criminals in the sights of their enquiry agency, and their targets do not all live in the slums. When they finished with any man who dared to touch Henry, my father would kill him, and her brothers would hide the body.
But dear Emma lacks such protections. No one could cavil at her bloodlines, but the scandal around her mother follows her yet. I do not know the whole, but I know Lady Fenshawe disappeared when Emma was five, and she has seen her father a bare three times in the intervening thirteen years.
Her maternal uncle, who is paying for her Season, has provided a useless elderly chaperone who finds a comfortable corner to sleep at every event. Once he arranged for a modiste and duenna, he lost interest in the whole matter, and his niece, and has attended not one event. He may as well have provided a sign that said 'Ruin me.'
Gently born and gently raised, Emma had been besieged almost from her presentation by improper proposals, though she had not told even Sally and Henry until this afternoon. Her friends had now made a pact not to leave her alone with any man, under any circumstances. Certainly, Emma had nothing further to fear at this party, for Lady Tarrington had come straightaway after hearing from her son, Peter, and had been everything kind. It was far from sure Emma would not yet see ramifications from the interlude, most likely in the form of more indecent proposals, but possibly up to and including total ruin of all her chances. But for the moment, Lord Athol had been neutered, at least figuratively.
Antonia, too, had been on the case, and as a Wakefield daughter herself, was not without resources and resourcefulness. Either she or Peter or Lady Tarrington, or all three, must have spoken to Lord and Lady Athol, for the Soddenfeld coach was at the door within the hour, and packed with their baggage shortly after.
Lady Athol claimed she was hurrying to the side of her son, who had a fever—though no one knew how this news had been conveyed to her. Lord Athol did his best not to be seen, keeping his black eyes and bent nose turned from the company as he made farewells to his disapproving hostess, flinching when Mr Tarrington opened and closed his fists, likewise bruised.
We will look after her better from now on, you can be sure, and we all thank you most kindly for your lessons in discouraging ruinous rakes. You saved dear Emma today, David. Though I do not need to tell you the attack is, we all pray, a closely kept secret. Beyond a doubt, if any of this should become known more widely, Emma will be ruined in reputation, if not in virtue.
How awful that a woman, doing naught but obliging her hostess in a silly game, is required to partner a man she did not like, and be blamed for any vile act he chooses to force upon her.
For once, Sally was glad Papa was reading her letters. He could protect and promote Emma far better than Sally could. She would ask him herself, from the man who kept her from her beloved, and that, she had sworn not to do.
It is late, and the day has been trying. Tomorrow, my cousins are again riding over to join the party, and we are to picnic at some nearby ruins. I will send this letter in the morning, dearest David, and will write again soon.
Your own,
Sally