‘Are you quite sure it is him, Emma?’
At first, Mr Waverley had gawped at his daughter as though she were talking in double Dutch. At the second attempt, he’d managed to garble out a pertinent question.
‘Yes, Papa. It is Robin.’ Emma wasn’t surprised by her father’s stunned reaction to the news that his son and heir wasn’t buried in France in a pauper’s grave after all. The same son who had recklessly caused a disaster so great that his father had bankrupted himself trying to extricate the boy from it would be welcomed back as a prince, not a pariah. Emma couldn’t help but feel a prickle of unease as she saw the burgeoning joy lifting her father’s features.
Her hedonist of a twin brother was back, expecting assistance from them, and their father would do his utmost to give it, whatever the cost to himself and his other child.
Her thoughts returned to the man she’d ejected from the parlour under an hour ago. If only she could remove him from her head as easily and fully concentrate on this family crisis. But the memory of a pair of startlingly blue eyes and long-fingered hands torn about the knuckles constantly interfered with her attempt to investigate how Robin’s return would affect them. If it were to come to light he was again on English soil, he would be arrested and the scandal would have new life breathed into it. A trial...a prison sentence...a death sentence...all were possibilities facing her brother. And much as Robin had infuriated her at times with his behaviour she’d always loved her twin dearly.
‘Oh, you are a good girl to bring me such wonderful tidings.’ Her father slumped down into the seat behind his desk, overcome. At the first mention of his son’s name he had forgotten about punishing his daughter and had listened intently to what she had to say. ‘How does he seem? Is he still the handsome boy I remember?’ Tears began trickling on to his freckled cheeks. ‘He is well? Tell me he is well with no ill effects.’ Bernard lifted his swimming eyes to his daughter’s pale, heart-shaped countenance.
‘He seems healthy, Papa. Perhaps a little thin.’
‘What did he say of me?’ Having recovered some composure, Mr Waverley eased himself up from behind his desk, keen to learn more. ‘He must come here after dark and we shall make plans to put things right so he can come home for good. He must be so eager to see his old papa.’
‘Of course he would like to see you,’ Emma fibbed when her father looked impatient for her reassurance. But she couldn’t tell the truth and break his heart.
Her brother had forbidden her to speak about their clandestine meetings to anybody, even their father. But her run-in with the footpads had changed all that. Had she managed to return home undetected, slipping in through the side door in the same way as she had left the house, then she might have been able to carry on the subterfuge a little longer. But her father’s bedroom faced the street and he was a light sleeper. He’d heard a vehicle draw up outside and had come down to investigate. Wraith-like in his nightshirt, he’d appeared on the step as she was being helped down. Quite understandably, he had been outraged to witness such a scene.
With hindsight, Emma wished she’d sensibly told her escort to stop at the corner. But from the start of their journey, when Mr Harley had lifted her as though she were feather-light and plonked her on the seat, she’d had difficulty thinking straight. He’d driven through the quiet streets like a daredevil. She had been dazed from the shock of being attacked, the journey passing in a breathless whirl. It had taken all her effort to stay upright as the vehicle careered around corners with her clinging to her hat with one hand and the upholstery with the other. She’d imagined he’d wanted to be rid of her with all due haste so he could then get about his own business.
Her father had a beatific smile on his face as he gazed into space. Then his frown took over. Emma guessed he was mulling over how to clear Robin’s name. But her poor papa was deluding himself that his prodigal son could re-enter society. A fugitive from justice would struggle to pick up the life he’d had. Neither did Robin seem to want to. All he required from his family was as much unconditional help as he could wheedle.
She had been on her way to the library a few days ago when her twin had sidled up to her, almost giving her a heart attack when she’d identified his features beneath the hat brim he’d pulled low. Taking her elbow, he had steered her towards a piece of heathland dotted with trees where once, as children, they’d spent happy hours playing. But there had been no laughter in this reunion. There had been so much she had wanted to know: how had he got back into the country? Where was he living? How was he supporting himself? But Robin had been more concerned with asking favours. He needed some money and his clothes and his books, and if they were still in his old room would she please sneak them to him under cover of darkness? Indeed, they were still in the house. Her father would never disturb any of Robin’s things and his bedchamber had been kept as a shrine.
Before they’d parted, Robin had briefly told her he wished to finish his law studies and get employment. He was already using a false name and, although he’d been reluctant to disclose it to her, she had insisted on knowing it. Charlie Perkins was not a very camouflaging alias. Her father would immediately recognise it as Perkins had been his wife’s maiden name and Charles had been her father. But for all Robin’s talk of having missed his family, he’d made it clear he didn’t want any interference from the people he’d left behind. Now he was Charlie, he’d said, and they must help him set up afresh.
Emma glanced at her father, smiling happily to himself as he anticipated a wonderful reunion. She should tell him that Robin was determined on having a new life, not his old one back. But she couldn’t. It would only make him the more determined to go and find his son. Emma guessed her twin was cohabiting with a woman because she’d spied stockings hanging over a chair in a bedroom. But Robin wouldn’t answer questions and had slammed shut the adjoining door, cutting off Emma’s view of the clothing.
‘I’m tired and want to retire now, Papa.’ Emma knew it would be wise to remove herself from her father’s presence before he found more awkward questions to ask.
‘Yes, off you go, my dear, and rest for a few hours.’ Mr Waverley shushed her away. ‘I think I shall see about some breakfast, though I’m so excited I doubt I shall eat a morsel.’ He sat down and drew forward pen and paper. ‘I will make some notes of strategies to help our dear boy. First, a good lawyer will be needed. A top man, not a cheap charlatan.’
Emma closed the study door and set off along the hall with a lingering sigh. Top lawyers demanded top fees and the only way her father would lay his hands on more funds was to go back to the usurers to borrow them. Yet already they were being dunned. Just last week her father had let two burly men into the house to take some furniture to keep a creditor at bay. He owed Joshua Gresham the most. But that lecher wouldn’t be fobbed off with sticks of furniture. He wanted something else in settlement.
She’d not had a wink of sleep and felt utterly exhausted. But she wouldn’t be able to rest with her head crammed with anxieties. The most persistent of which was that her knight in shining armour had gone off without giving his word to keep his lip buttoned. How stupid of her to mention her brother to him! As she closed her bedchamber door, she played over in her mind their conversation and felt a modicum of relief. She’d not said she’d seen Robin, only that she’d had a meeting to attend. She could hint at having heard a rumour that her brother had been spotted in London. Of course, that hardly explained why she’d go out searching for him at dead of night.
Her father had received an anonymous letter a year ago informing him that his son had died of consumption in France. The note had been written in a woman’s hand, although the person hadn’t disclosed any more than they were ‘a good friend’ of the deceased’s. Emma now believed it had been sent by a French mistress of Robin’s, on his instruction, so he could plot his eventual return to his homeland. Obviously, he hadn’t trusted his family enough to know the whole truth. And still he didn’t, it seemed!
Emma closed the bedroom curtains against the early sunbeams striping the walls with golden light. She undressed quickly, putting on her nightgown, then tidied away her clothes before climbing into bed and pulling the covers