Lance was deftly folding a sepia-silk cravat as he strolled to the window and looked out over Grosvenor Square. Smart vehicles thronged the street, people strolled and a few liveried servants could be seen weaving busily between the gentry. Mentally, he sorted through his business affairs. There were several matters to finalise before he journeyed later to Hertfordshire to find out what in damnation his stepsister had been up to this time. If he were to bring her home he first needed an idea of where to find her. He hadn’t spotted Augusta in town for weeks and neither had he heard gossip about her, which was unusual. She was staying in town with a chaperon chosen by her mother. Obviously the woman was unable to discipline Augusta well enough to keep her out of trouble.
Within a short while Lance’s mind had wandered back to Marylebone and an image of an exquisite raven-haired woman. Before he left town he knew he’d be compelled to call on Miss Waverley again. He wasn’t particularly vain, but for some reason he needed to show her he wasn’t a drunken ruffian...well, not very often, anyway. And he knew she was no fallen woman, although he’d hinted as much to her and seen her bristle angrily. But what in damnation had she been thinking of, going to a rookery at night, even to meet her fugitive brother? He felt a genuine concern for what might have happened to her had he not gone to Cheapside to visit Jenny last night. And he had been in two minds about it.
Although she’d been his mistress for less than a year he was already contemplating pensioning her off. He never accounted to a mistress for his whereabouts or his behaviour and Jenny had lately been expecting he might do both. Lance knew an opera singer was angling for his attention and he’d given Maria enough reason to expect he might approach her. Now he couldn’t recall what about the soprano had attracted him.
The more he tried to forget Emma Waverley, the more his thoughts returned to finding an excuse to pay a call at Primrose Square. He could go back to ask after her welfare following her mishap. Another meeting between them would be unwelcome to her, she’d made that clear, so the reception he’d get was uncertain. But he liked a challenge and was desperate enough to be in the same room with her again to take a few barbs.
‘White’s or Watier’s?’ Lance asked over a shoulder. ‘We could have a game of Faro before I set off. You might win your losses back.’
‘Fat chance of that if you’re in on it.’ Jack snorted grumpily. ‘Watier’s...the food’s better,’ he opted, having given the matter a second of consideration. ‘Besides, yesterday there was some talk at the Faro table about a duel on Wimbledon Common. Didn’t recognise the names of those involved, but I’m curious to know who was victorious.’
Lance gazed down on to a sunlit street scene, hands thrust into his pockets. ‘On the matter of duels, d’you recall anything about a fellow called Waverley fleeing abroad after a scandal?’
‘That’s going back some years,’ Jack said in surprise. ‘This duel was over a woman, but nobody deserves to end up in the dung like Robin Waverley. Damnable pity for him.’
‘Refresh my memory,’ Lance said. ‘I can’t bring it all to mind.’
‘Why d’you want to know?’ Jack crossed his arms over his chest, looking inquisitive.
‘If I ever need to act as your second, I’d like to know what I’m getting into.’ Lance shrugged into a charcoal-grey tailcoat his valet had laid out.
‘Same as last time you acted as my second...or I acted as yours,’ came the dry reply. ‘I know you ain’t forgotten as it was barely a month ago I met Bellingham.’
‘That was over a Covent Garden nun. Was Robin Waverley’s sister involved in his trouble? I don’t recall the details.’
‘I believe she was. She eloped with Simon Gresham. At the time nobody knew why she’d do that when Gresham could have approached her father for his consent. Still, they wanted to do it on the sly and her brother discovered the reason for it and pursued them. He brought her back and called Gresham out.’
‘How old was she then?’ Lance was listening intently.
‘About eighteen, I think.’
‘Simon Gresham wasn’t acceptable to her father, perhaps?’
‘I should say he wasn’t!’ Jack snorted. ‘If they’d reached Gretna and done the deed he’d have made of himself a bigamist.’ Jack poured himself the dregs from the coffee pot. ‘That’s what Robin Waverley found out: Simon Gresham already had a wife.’
‘You look rather tired, my dear.’
‘I stayed up reading until quite late,’ Emma replied coolly, meeting the watchful eyes of the man standing opposite her. She knew he was expecting her to invite him to sit down. But she wanted him gone, not making himself comfortable. ‘My father will not be home for some hours. He has gone out on business. You should return another time, sir.’
Joshua Gresham refused to take the hint to leave. He shifted his feet even wider apart, crossed his arms over his bulky torso and treated her to another of his false smiles. ‘But I am here to see you, as I imagine you well know.’ He glanced at the small servant hovering in the doorway of the parlour. ‘Will you send her away?’
The maid’s expression didn’t change and neither did she move. Mrs O’Reilly remained where she was, glaring into space. But Emma knew that the woman was biting her tongue in the same way she was herself. In her Irish brogue, and behind his back, Cathleen O’Reilly had called Mr Gresham a nasty fat feller on previous occasions that he’d visited.
Customarily he’d turn up unannounced on the pretence of visiting her father. But she wouldn’t put it past him to have watched and waited for Bernard to leave the house today before knocking on the door to trap her alone. She was well aware that she was the one he really wanted to torment.
‘I am expecting my friend to call on me this afternoon. We are going shopping.’
‘Then we have a chance to talk before she arrives,’ he purred.
‘As you wish.’ The effort of being civil to this loathsome individual made Emma’s stomach squirm. She avoided Cathleen’s eyes. The maid was muttering beneath her breath and Emma knew the woman was itching to be told to show him out. But there were things that even her father wasn’t aware of that had gone on between his daughter and this man.
She’d not pretended to have an appointment, but her friend wasn’t due to call until four and the clock on the mantel had only just chimed three.
Joshua Gresham propped an elbow against the chimneypiece, cocking his head to peer at her. His stance reminded Emma of another gentleman who had recently been in this room. But Joshua, shorter in stature and thicker of frame, had none of Mr Harley’s fine physical attributes. Neither did he have that man’s character. Oddly, as she compared the two of them, she realised that she had found Mr Harley quite charming...a fact that she imagined might make him give her one of his ironic smiles, did he but know it.
Emma went to the window and gazed along the street, hoping her friend might come early and save her enduring Gresham’s company. For all his sham politeness he was a nasty piece of work and his brother had been little better. It had been a terrible error of judgement on her part to get involved with Simon, let alone fall in love with him. She had put her faith and trust in a lying wretch and thereby destroyed her family.
Yet, even knowing Simon had tricked her couldn’t prevent a residue of wistfulness welling up inside. The man she’d wanted to marry had been the same one who had driven them all into debt and disgrace, losing his life in the doing of it. Her brother and her father had declared it was his own fault and no less than the scoundrel deserved. But Emma had shut herself in her room and howled for days when she found out that the man she’d believed she would