Page 17 of Chasing the Earl
“Neither, I’m afraid.” Dunst shook his head. “It was Peony.”
Emmagene exchanged a look with Huntly. “The creature who released such a noxious odor is named after a flower?”
“Peony ishername. An ironic choice, I agree. His Lordship finds it amusing. The smell is Peony’s way of protecting herself. She only does such a thing when she’s very frightened. Or at least, according to Lord Southwell.” He gave Huntly a pointed look.
“Don’t glower at me like that, Dunst.” Huntly crossed his arms across his chest. “You act as if I got down on all fours and insulted it. Her. Peony.”
The butler cleared his throat.
“Butwhatis she?” Emmagene asked.
“Peony is a skunk and, as far as I’m aware, the only one in England. Lord Southwell adopted Peony while on one of his trips to America. She was orphaned, poor little thing. Very tiny. His lordship couldn’t bear to leave her to fend for herself, so he brought her home. Peony has an enclosure.” He gave another pointed look at Huntly. “Which you must have invaded, my lord. And she felt threatened.”
“Threatened?” Huntly said curtly. “She owes me a bloody coat at the very least, Dunst. I had to leave mine in the woods due to the stench.”
Dunst pinched his nose. “Apologies, my lord.”
“Does she”—Emmagene looked at Huntly, trying not to breathe in the smell—“do this often?”
“No, Miss Stitch. Peony has only done so a handful of times. We find vinegar helps get rid of the smell, somewhat.”
“Somewhat?” Huntly snapped.
“My lord, you will require a bath immediately. Several of them. Your clothing burned—”
“Burned?”
“The smell—unfortunately, my lord—will never come out of your clothes. Best to burn them.”
Emmagene covered her mouth but not quick enough to stifle the snort of amusement coming from her.
Huntly glared at her. “This is your fault.”
“If you would”—Dunst kept his nose pinched—“please come this way, my lord, and up the back stairs. We don’t want the other guests exposed. Jonas,” he barked.
A young lad came running from inside the house before coming to a screeching halt when he caught a whiff of Huntly.
“Ooh.” Jonas waved his hand before his eyes widened at seeing Emmagene. “I mean, oh dear, miss.”
Another snort escaped her. This was like watching a dreadful play at the theater unfold.
“Peony has claimed another victim, Jonas,” Dunst explained unnecessarily. “Please have a bath drawn for Lord Huntly. We’ll need vinegar. Lots of soap. I’m afraid you won’t be able to dine with the others this evening, my lord, so I’ll arrange for a tray to be sent to your room.”
Huntly stomped by Emmagene, fists clenched, reeking like a pile of spoiled garbage, while her shoulders shook with laughter. “Not another word, Miss Stitch.”
Chapter Six
Emmagene sipped herbrandy, ignoring the reproving looks of several of the other ladies in attendance. Lady Trent appeared especially distressed Emmagene wasn’t calmly sipping ratafia or sherry. Her hostess kept casting her side glances as if waiting for Emmagene to do or say something offensive.
Actually, most of the guests paid Emmagene little attention, as they were too focused on the objects that filled the room. Southwell had created his own museum, so to speak, decorating what was once Longwood’s massive ballroom with items brought home from his travels. Emmagene sipped at her glass and took in the wall before her. A hideous mask, lips drawn into an ugly grimace, hung above her. Directly below the mask was a podium on which a pipe, decorated with feathers and beads, sat enclosed in glass.
Emmagene peered up at the mask. The expression was similar to the one Montieth had worn as he was seated next to her at dinner this evening. After having wanted to be escorted by the earl, mainly to be included in the group surrounding Honora, Emmagene had found Montieth as a dinner companion to be boring, at best. He’d been coldly polite, so much so that Emmagene had found herself missing Huntly’s abrasive presence. There was only so much conversation one could make about the weather. There hadn’t been any peas to be thrown, and Montieth hadn’t even addressed any of the footmen directly.
“I understand you met Peony today while out walking in the woods with Hunt.” The Earl of Southwell appeared beside Emmagene, a half smile on his mouth, deepening the dimple in his cheek. The earl was a blindingly handsome man with a commanding presence and a wealth of effortless charm. Had she been any other woman, Emmagene would have been dazzled.
“I wasn’t walking with Lord Huntly, my lord,” she snipped.
Southwell raised a brow at her tone but merely took another sip of his own drink.
