How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 24

  “Ailesbury!” Francis shook his host’s outstretched hand. He then directed an elegant bow toward the marchioness. “My lady. I trust that you remember Mr. Rosedale. And may I present some dear friends of mine, the Rutherford sisters: Beatrice, Emily, and Claire.”

  “It’s an honor, my lord.” Beatrice, being the oldest, spoke for all of them, then made a slight curtsey. Her sisters followed suit.

  “Surely not Anna and James’s children?” the marchioness inquired in amazement.

  “Indeed we are, my lady,” Beatrice told her.

  “Well, then, I daresay it’s about time you’ve come to London. It simply won’t do for three lovely young ladies such as yourselves to remain hidden away in a small place like Hardington—not that it isn’t a charming little town, but one simply doesn’t have the same access to culture and potential husbands as one does in London. I’m quite sure that half the gentry must be fawning over you already!”

  None of the three women could help but blush at the marchioness’s remark. “We visited Hardington once, you know,” she continued. “Your parents used to throw the most extravagant parties—people would gladly come from miles away to attend. Oh, but we were so much younger then and far more reckless.” She put her hand gently on her husband’s arm to draw his attention. “Dear, do you remember how Lord Tenant had to walk home in his unmentionables? He’d gambled away everything else.”

  “I do believe Lord Barnaby took pity on the fool and gave him a ride, but yes, I do recall it being quite a colorful event.”

  “Ah . . . to be young again,” Lady Ailesbury sighed as she reminisced about her youth. She suddenly shook her head to rid it of the cobwebs, returning her mind to the present. “What a pleasant surprise, indeed. Oh and you must call me Margaret—I absolutely insist.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes until another set of guests arrived, and Francis and Jonathan led the sisters toward a table filled with refreshments.

  “Is that not Lady Barkley over there?” Emily whispered.

  Francis cast a quick glance in the direction Emily was looking. “Well spotted, my dear. You’ll also recognize Lady Cunningham—you’ll recall that you attended her garden party a couple of weeks ago. The other lady in their presence is Lady Ingham, the Countess of Arundel.” He handed Emily a glass of champagne. “All three are very influential women, and they’re almost always seen together. They’ve been friends since they were young girls, you know—I think we ought to go and say hello.”

  Leaving Beatrice and Claire with Jonathan, they made their way toward the small cluster of women. “Lady Barkley!” Francis called out as they approached, causing the older woman to turn around immediately in search of the voice.

  “Lord Dunhurst and Miss Rutherford. What a delight! I was hoping that I might run into you tonight.”

  Francis greeted the other two women before ensuring that they were all familiar with Emily.

  “You’ve made quite a catch for yourself, Dunhurst,” Lady Cunningham told him without any attempt at discretion. “Miss Rutherford’s a beautiful young woman with a cheerful disposition. I quite enjoyed making her acquaintance.” She cast Emily a warm smile. “And I do hope that we’ll be seeing more of her in the near future.”

  “I’m sure you shall,” Lady Barkley chimed in. “Young Emily here has become quite the talk of the town. It seems that she has singlehandedly tamed our young lord—apparently he’s been nothing but smiles for the past fortnight, and we all know that Lord Dunhurst never smiles.” She cast a sidelong glance at Francis, who was suddenly favoring her with his severest frown. “Oh, there’s no need to look at me like that. You know it’s true.”

  “Well, I for one am quite pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Rutherford,” Lady Ingham intoned. “Perhaps you can work your magic on my husband as well?”

  Emily blushed at the compliment, but Lady Barkley didn’t miss a beat. “Give it up, Laura. We both know that your husband is a lost cause.”

  “We used to think the same of Dunhurst,” Lady Ingham pointed out.

  “Yes, but he at least has the advantage of youth. Your husband, on the other hand . . . well, you know how the saying goes . . . something about old dogs and new tricks.”

  “I’m sure your meaning is completely lost on me,” Lady Ingham remarked, pretending to be greatly offended, though her smirk betrayed that she was very capable of enjoying jokes that were made at her husband’s expense.

  “You’re quite right, though,” Francis told them. “My recent good humor is entirely due to Emily—especially since she has recently allowed me to court her.” He smiled broadly, completely unable to contain his enthusiasm. He would have loved for nothing better than to have announced that she was now his wife, but for now, this would have to do.

  Lady Barkley clapped her hands together in a gesture of sheer delight. “I knew it,” she squeaked. “Didn’t I say that the two of you looked rather enamored with one another? I believe I told you to let me know if there was any development.”

  “And I just have, have I not?” Francis asked slyly.

  “So you have,” Lady Barkley admitted. “Well, congratulations—I hope it ends with a proposal.”

  Emily was sure that “just married” must be written upon her forehead in bold letters for all to see. Heat had risen to her face so forcefully by now that she feared she must look like a beetroot. Even a blind person would know, based on the waves of heat radiating off of her, that something was underfoot. How in God’s name was she ever going to hold up against Charlotte, who was sure to be more astute than these women? On the other hand, they didn’t seem to have noticed anything, so perhaps her worries were unfounded.

  “Francis, I must add you to my dance card,” a smooth voice said from behind them. It was Veronica, who had approached them together with Lord Farringale. She was wearing a bright orange silk dress with a black velvet ribbon highlighting the empire cut of it. Black feathers had been stuck into her hair at the back, adding that dash of flamboyance that she was so well known for. In truth, the whole ensemble would have looked ghastly on anyone else, but in some peculiar way, it really suited her.

  “It was my intention to dance only with Emily,” Francis told Veronica, as he stooped to kiss her lightly on her outstretched hand.

  “Come, Francis, even you know that’s not done unless she is your wife—is that not so, Lady Cunningham?” Emily’s knees went weak and she clasped hold of Francis’s arm. How the devil was he managing to maintain such a calm façade? It was doing nothing but unnerving her.

  “I must agree with Lady Giddington,” Lady Cunningham said. “You mustn’t monopolize any woman, except, as Lady Giddington correctly stated, your wife. As Emily is not your wife . . . for heaven’s sake, the poor dear looks as though she’s about to have a spell. Why don’t you dance with Lady Giddington, Lord Dunhurst? I’m sure that Lord Farringale won’t mind ensuring that Miss Rutherford gets some fresh air.”

  “I’ll see that she gets some fresh air,” Francis insisted with increasing annoyance. “I doubt Lady Giddington will mind a short wait.”

  “You’re far too possessive, Lord Dunhurst. If you don’t give the poor girl an ounce of freedom, she may decide not to have you,” Lady Barkley chirped. “She’ll be in good hands with Farringale—he’s quite capable, you know.”

  “I know precisely what he’s capable of—that’s what worries me.” Francis’s eyes had lost all sense of cheer and taken on a thunderous look instead. Farringale completely ignored it, however. Meanwhile, Emily was becoming increasingly anxious to remove herself from the group’s presence. Their comments had completely undone every shred of her composure, leaving her a nervous wreck.

  “Come now, Dunhurst. I know the lady is spoken for,” Farringale told him. “And if that wasn’t enough to keep me at bay, then surely even you must know that I’d never make any advances on a lady about to swoon.”

  “Very well,” Francis reluctantly conceded, mostly because he was unw
illing to raise any suspicions. If he pursued the subject any further, Veronica and Lady Barkley were sure to discover that things weren’t quite the way they appeared.

  Charlotte spotted Francis the moment he arrived, and soon noticed that he and the lady on his arm appeared to be rather tense. She couldn’t help but wonder why. She’d been told that the lady in question was one of the infamous Rutherford sisters whom everyone had been talking about that season. The one her son appeared to be most interested in, however, was apparently Emily, though Charlotte couldn’t for the life of her understand why. But contrary to what all the gossipmongers had been telling her, the couple seemed far from happy. His fierce demeanor alone was enough to cast serious doubt on their relationship. Perhaps he’d already tired of her then? It was the only reasonable explanation that came to mind—Francis would never tolerate a weak woman like that. For heaven’s sake, she looked about ready to cry as she stood there now, clinging to his arm. What a pitiful sight, Charlotte thought to herself as she watched them talk to Ladies Barkley, Ingham, and Cunningham.

  It was then, at that very moment that Charlotte decided to find out what Francis’s relationship with Emily Rutherford actually was. If he had mistreated the girl or perhaps given her false hopes in any way, then perhaps she could use it to her advantage—after all, Emily Rutherford was a poor woman . . . surely she’d enjoy the prospect of taking what she could get from Francis, particularly if something made her angry enough to cloud her judgment.

  Weak people were always susceptible to persuasion. And as far as Charlotte could tell, Emily Rutherford was a very weak woman indeed.

  An idea began to emerge inside her head. Clearly Emily was terrified of Francis abandoning her. But if Charlotte could somehow help Emily salvage her relationship with Francis . . . if she could somehow guarantee that Francis would propose to her . . . Emily would be indebted to her forever.

  A slow, deliberate smirk slid its way across Charlotte’s lips. She needed a means by which to gain access to Dunhurst Park and retrieve what was rightfully hers. Perhaps this Rutherford woman would prove to be her golden ticket . . . the ally that she required to get back inside the mansion. She would have to speak to her as soon as possible, she decided.

  Lord Farringale helped Emily outside, directing her toward a bench where he urged her to sit down. “The fresh air will do you good, Miss Rutherford,” he told her. “Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, then yes, I would greatly appreciate that.”

  He left her instantly to find the large decanter of ice water that stood on the refreshment table. Returning with a glass in hand, he found his path blocked by Charlotte. “Miss Browne. How do you do?”

  “Quite well. Quite well indeed,” she replied with a sweet smile. “I thought perhaps I might take Miss Rutherford off your hands.”

  “I . . .”

  “She is clearly unwell and in need of a woman’s touch. Why don’t you run along and enjoy the party instead?”

  “But Lord Dunhurst . . .”

  “Will be most relieved to have a lady tending to her rather than the most notorious flirt in all of London.” She tilted her head and gave him the most convincing smile she could muster. “Really, I insist.”

  “Very well then, by all means,” he said, handing her the glass of water.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Miss Rutherford?”

  The words were softly spoken—almost a whisper—yet Emily found herself startled by them all the same. She’d been thinking about the task that lay ahead of her, attempting to regain her composure. It simply wouldn’t do to fall apart in front of Charlotte. Somehow she would have to find the means by which to play her part—her happiness with Francis depended upon it. Now, looking up, her eyes met those of a woman who appeared to be quite beautiful in spite of her age. In fact, her skin was still fairly smooth—it was only the crow’s feet and the occasional dash of gray in her otherwise light brown hair that betrayed her. Her eyes were kind and her smile pleasant. Emily couldn’t help but like her immediately.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the woman told her, handing her a glass of water and sitting down next to her on the bench. “My name is Charlotte Browne.”

  Heat rushed down Emily’s back at the sound of that name, her skin suddenly prickling with edginess. She was thankful for the darkness that would hopefully mask the stunned look upon her face.

  Remaining perfectly still, she made a stoic attempt to relax and calm herself. “I’m Emily Rutherford,” she heard herself say—her voice far cooler than she felt.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Emily merely shook her head, worried her anxiety would be plain in any words she spoke. The moment had come, and she would not forgive herself for making a mess of it. No, she would just have to get a hold of herself and manage to get through it . . . somehow. Indeed, she was fortunate that Charlotte had approached her in the first place, for it was less likely to make her suspicious than if Emily had sought to befriend her, as had been their initial plan.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you arrived together with Lord Dunhurst. You are his guest, are you not?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, I used to be a close friend of his parents. I’ve known Francis all his life, in fact. He’s a good man at heart, though it seems he has been through some difficult years following his mother’s death.” Charlotte feigned a look of such sadness that Emily could not stop her own heart from clenching or the tears from forming behind her eyes.

  If this woman truly was as horrid as Francis had described her, then she was far more dangerous than Emily had thought. She was a master at sympathizing and at being empathetic. What a supreme performer . . . so genuine and natural. Emily cautioned herself not to fall under her spell. She had known her for only a brief moment while Francis had known her his whole life. She would trust that what he told her about Charlotte was true, and she would do whatever she could to help him be rid of her forever. She braced herself before charging ahead—the battle of wits was on, and there was no longer any going back. If Charlotte discovered her true intentions . . . she dared not think of what a woman like Charlotte might do to those who betrayed her trust.

  “Yes, I believe it very nearly destroyed him.”

  “But not completely, I take it?”

  “Time will tell.” Emily said no more. She did not wish to rush or seem too eager. Trust was something that was gained with time.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I—instead of Lord Farringale—brought you the water.”

  “Not at all,” Emily replied. “To be honest, I don’t know him that well—I’ve no idea what we might have talked about and I do so hate uncomfortable silences.”

  “My sentiment exactly. Besides, I could not help but notice that you looked distressed earlier. I thought perhaps you might like to talk about . . . whatever’s bothering you.” Charlotte’s eyes met Emily’s.

  What was she getting at, Emily wondered. It seemed as if she was digging for something . . . but for what?

  “It was nothing,” she said after a moment’s silence. She wished to add to Charlotte’s curiosity as well as to satisfy her own. Hopefully her dismissive response would cause Charlotte to press the issue.

  “Has he wronged you in any way?”

  So that was it. Charlotte wanted to know about her relationship with Francis; did she love him or . . . “I thought perhaps . . .” Emily sighed deeply, then brushed at her eyes as if to remove the onset of tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Browne. How utterly inappropriate of me to burden you with my personal affairs. We barely know one another.”

  Charlotte gave her the most compassionate of all smiles. It was clear to Emily that her little performance had wetted Charlotte’s appetite and she’d grown eager to find out more. “Sometimes it can be easier to confess your troubles to a stranger. I shall not judge you. On t
he contrary, I shall offer to advise you on the matter if you so desire.”

  Emily paused, pretending to hesitate with a sense of uncertainty. “I do not wish to betray his trust, but I cannot . . . oh, it’s a terrible mess!” And without knowing how she managed it, Emily began to cry with genuine heaving sobs that shook her shoulders.

  “Dear me, Miss Rutherford. Whatever is the matter?” Charlotte said as she put her arm around Emily to comfort her.

  Emily wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I thought he felt the same about me as I do about him,” she sniffed.

  “There, there now. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  Emily paused, allowing time for rising suspense. “He told me we would marry, that it did not matter if we waited until after the wedding or not . . . we were betrothed, and . . . oh God,” Emily drew a trembling breath. “I’ve been such a fool.”

  Charlotte’s eyes grew wide. “And here I was, thinking that I might be able to help the two of you resolve your issues . . . I’m so sorry, Miss Rutherford,” she said, squeezing her shoulder ever so slightly. “It seems the young buck has robbed you of the only thing you had to offer a potential husband.”

  Emily stiffened—something which Charlotte surely took to be an appropriate response to what she’d just said. But the truth was that Emily was shocked by her callousness. The only thing you had to offer. Charlotte had in one swift move removed any illusions that she might have about somebody actually loving her for her. That is, she probably would have done so, had Emily not known her true nature. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that Charlotte was up to something. Her best move, she reasoned, was to remain quiet and wait for her to continue.