Page 34 of To Marry and to Meddle
“What a shame,” Cartham said in tones of exaggerated sarcasm. He shook his head. “The wench served her purpose, anyway—I’ve gentlemen from every family of thetonpatronizing my—”
He did not get any further at that juncture because of the rather uncomfortable situation he found himself in—namely, with Julian’s hand at his collar, pulling him halfway out of his seat.
“I’d advise you to think very carefully before you ever refer to Lady Julian in such terms again,” Julian said quietly, never once breaking eye contact with Cartham, noting with petty satisfaction that his sudden movement had knocked the other man’s spectacles askew. “Do we understand each other?”
Cartham gave him a murderous look.
“Get out, Belfry,” he said, wrenching himself from Julian’s grasp. He reached behind him to tug on a bellpull and a moment later the door of his office opened, presumably by a servant who had been waiting just outside for his employer’s signal.
“Gladly,” Julian said coolly, taking a step backward and shaking out his cuffs. “I’ll have a bank draft sent over in the morning, and then I expect we need see no more of each other.” He picked up his hat and gave Cartham a mocking sort of bow on the way out the door.
“You’re a fool, Belfry,” Cartham called after him. “Whatever your plan is—she seems like more trouble than she could possibly be worth.”
“She’s not,” Julian tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn, and realized as he made his way down the stairs and back out onto the street that, despite the amount of money Emily had cost him today—despite the fact that he’d been reduced to making primitive threats to a man he’d rather never speak to ever again—he still meant it.
Emily was worth it.
Or at least what she could do for him was.
Eleven
It was a bit strange,Emily reflected that same afternoon, to find oneself suddenly in command of a home.
Thinking logically about the matter, it was nothing more than she’d spent the better part of the past decade of her life preparing for—was that not the ultimate goal of every lady launched onto the marriage mart, after all? To marry an eligible man of means and find herself charged with the running of his household?
For Emily, however, the days when she had assumed herself to be imminently granted such a responsibility were long in the past. She’d had her first Season, of course, but then lost the next two, thanks to her brother. She and Jack had never been close—in the dark hours of the night when sleep eluded her, she could even admit to herself that she did not miss him, after his death—but if she could go back in time to that morning at dawn and implore him to shoot into the air, she would do so in a heartbeat. Instead, he’d killed his opponent—a gentleman who, as Emily understood it, had been the wronged party in their dispute, something to do with an insult to the man’s wife—and been forced to flee to the Continent, where he’d later died under what her mother delicately referred to as “unsavory circumstances.”
It had never seemed fair that Emily should be forced to spend thenext two Seasons in seclusion in the countryside, first to wait for the scandal to die down, then to observe the proper mourning period.Shehadn’t done anything wrong, after all.
She had never given voice to this complaint, of course—she rarely gave voice to any of her complaints.
Ladies didn’t complain. They simply got on with it.
But now, here she was, married to a husband of means at last, and suddenly with rather a lot more responsibility than she’d had a week earlier.
“… menus for the week, just so that you can give your approval,” Mrs. Larkspur was saying, and Emily realized with a guilty pang that at some point she had stopped listening to the housekeeper as they went from room to room. After Julian’s departure this morning, his butler, Bramble, had handed Emily off into Mrs. Larkspur’s capable hands, and they’d spent the past three-quarters of an hour on a thorough tour of the house, with Emily making mental notes as to which rooms needed new wall hangings, which chairs could be reupholstered. The house itself, as she had noted the day before, was respectable and well-appointed, but there was an unmistakable lack of a feminine touch in the decor that Emily intended to correct.
“Does that sound agreeable, my lady?” Mrs. Larkspur prompted gently. She was a kind-faced woman of middling years, who presumably could have found employment in any number of aristocratic households in town; Emily belatedly wondered what had prompted her to work for a dissolute theater owner instead.
“It sounds perfectly agreeable, Mrs. Larkspur,” Emily replied, before adding, “How long have you worked for Lord Julian?”
Mrs. Larkspur smiled fondly. “Since soon after he bought this house, my lady,” she said. “I used to work at Everly Priory, but themarchioness—I mean, I took it into my head that I’d prefer life in town, closer to my niece.” She looked a bit flustered as she spoke.
“Everly Priory,” Emily said slowly, frowning a bit. “Isn’t that Lord Julian’s childhood home?”
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Larkspur nodded.
But this was not, Emily thought, what Mrs. Larkspur had originally been about to say. She had mentioned the marchioness—presumably Julian’s mother—before abruptly catching herself.
It was odd.
Emily did not have the opportunity to reflect on it at the moment, however, because further conversation was forestalled by a polite, inquisitivemeow.
Startled, Emily and Mrs. Larkspur turned in unison as a telltale paw emerged from underneath Emily’s skirts.
“Cecil!” she cried, lifting her skirts enough to fish the kitten out and scoop him up in her arms. “Where did you come from?”
“Meow,” he said cheerfully, purring. She leaned forward to press a kiss to the white stripe of fur on his nose.
