1

Bath

The elegant carriage came to a halt outside number ten, and Jeremy Vance, fifth Viscount Faris, leaned out of the window to look expectantly at his footman.

“Not dignifying them with your presence today, then?” Colfax asked from his perch.

“God no. There’s only so much of the Arbuthnots I can take in one calendar month,” Jeremy replied dryly. “Kindly retrieve my heir.”

“They’ll be disappointed,” Colfax commented sotto voce as he climbed down. Let them , thought Jeremy callously. He did not care for the Arbuthnots and intended to do everything in his power to sway his son’s partiality for their society as soon as possible.

He watched Colfax ascend the steps to ring the bell, but the door was whisked open before his fingers had closed around the pull cord. Judging by the way the housemaid blushed and giggled, Jeremy didn’t think everyone was disappointed by his nonappearance.

Observing the twitch of the parlor curtains, Jeremy looked away. He knew his son considered Arthur Arbuthnot the best of his old school friends, but he found he could not abide another meeting with the boy’s mother, not even for Teddy’s sake. He was sure it was her elaborately ringleted head he’d caught a glimpse of at the window. Ghastly woman.

Mercifully, Teddy did not take long to emerge this time. Was it too much to hope that Arthur Arbuthnot’s charm might have waned somewhat in his fickle affections? Jeremy scanned his son’s face as he made his way down the steps toward him. As he did so, his heart sank a little. Nine-year-old Teddy had a speculative look on his deceptively angelic face. Oh God, what was he after now?

Jeremy threw open the door as Colfax made his way unhurriedly back down the steps.

“Good evening, Papa” Teddy caroled as he climbed into the carriage.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” Jeremy enquired politely.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied promptly.

“What was it this time?” he asked. “A Punch and Judy show? A new puppy?”

Teddy shook his head as he settled onto the seat opposite his father. “No, for Arthur’s mother wanted us to sit quietly with her today. She said Arthur must remember that I am convalescing,” he said, “and must not expect me to play nasty boys’ games.”

Jeremy shot him a surprised look. “I was not aware that you and Arthur had been indulging in any rough and tumble,” he said, revising his opinion of staid, bespectacled Arthur.

“Oh, we haven’t,” Teddy said blithely, “but Arthur has a new cricket set and asked if Simpson could take us to the park with it. His mama said no, and that he must bring down some books for me and his train set instead.”

Jeremy eyed his son with some puzzlement as Colfax climbed atop the carriage. Teddy had an air of suppressed excitement about him that a staid afternoon in the Arbuthnots’ parlor did not account for. Knowing his son’s frequently and strongly expressed feelings about occupying himself quietly with books, he could not imagine that Mrs. Arbuthnot’s suggestion was met with any enthusiasm by Teddy.

Reaching up, Jeremy rapped the roof to signify they should drive off. “Well, I imagine you were both disappointed,” he ventured as the carriage lurched into action, “but perhaps it was for the best. Dr. Reid did say no physical exertion for at least six weeks.”

Teddy, who had been complaining nonstop about intolerable boredom for the past month, nodded philosophically. “And if we had not remained indoors, then I should never have heard about Miss Ballentine, would I, Papa?”

“Of whom?” Jeremy was startled by the air of import that Teddy attached to the name. Startled, also, by the blast of associated emotion with that same name. Surely, surely he did not say what Jeremy thought he had said.

His son gazed back at him with disapproval. “Miss Ballentine,” he repeated sternly. When Jeremy continued speechless, Teddy rolled his eyes. “Arthur’s mother told me all about her. They came out in the same season, but Miss Ballentine’s father was ‘an awful cit.’ What’s an awful cit , Papa?”

Jeremy considered this as his thoughts raced. “A cit, my boy, is someone who makes his money in the city. A self-made man of business, usually. A most entrepreneurial and resourceful fellow. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of, as Mrs. Arbuthnot seems to have given you the impression.”

“Oh.” Teddy appeared to digest this. Then he turned a forbidding glower upon his father. “Arthur’s mama,” he said severely, “said Miss Ballentine used to turn very red when you came to parties, and you used to make everyone laugh by dancing with her.”

Jeremy paused. “I used to do what?” he asked, turning cold. Feigning deafness to stall for time seemed the best course of action. Why in hell would the Arbuthnot woman think it was appropriate to relay such tales to his own son?

“Arthur’s mother said you used to wink at your friends after you asked her to dance, and they all used to laugh up their sleeves at her.”

Damn the woman . Jeremy straightened up in his seat. “I’m afraid Mrs. Arbuthnot is laboring under a misapprehension,” he said firmly. “If I asked this Miss—?” He bent a quizzical look on Teddy, as though he had forgotten her name.

“Ballentine,” he supplied helpfully.

“Miss Ballentine to dance with me,” Jeremy continued smoothly, “then it would have been because I wished to dance with her. If I winked to my friends, it must have been because I was feeling particularly proud of myself.”

Teddy’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “So…you weren’t making fun of her, then?” he asked, his blue eyes very intent.

“That would have been very bad form indeed,” Jeremy answered smoothly. “I would hope you would have a better opinion of your papa.” He felt strangely winded by the exchange. Emmeline Ballentine . He had not permitted himself to think of her for years. Suddenly, he seemed to catch a faint and surely phantom scent of orange blossoms.

“You liked her, then?” Teddy persisted. “You must have, if you wanted to dance with her.”

“If I asked her to stand up with me at parties, then obviously I liked her,” Jeremy confirmed crisply, ignoring the fact he had done a good many selfish and cruel things over the years. His conscience stirred uneasily. The damn thing had been inactive for eons, until it had slowly limped forth, sometime in the past eighteen months, to trouble him. Sometimes he wished it would go back to malfunctioning. Things had been so much easier when he had been an unprincipled swine.

Previously, he had dealt with such stirrings with a stiff drink. That seemed to obliterate such feelings of guilt, but that was no longer an option. He could not be divorced and a drunkard. That was simply too much to weigh against him in the balance. He may have been considered unprincipled in his salad days, but he had never been a social outcast.

“That’s good,” Teddy said, looking relieved now that matter had been cleared up. “That should make things easier.”

“Things?”

“You marrying her, I mean.”

Jeremy’s eyes bulged. “Marrying?” he repeated faintly.

“Yes,” Teddy confirmed before turning a reproachful gaze upon him. “You told me, did you not, that you would not get married again without my approval,” he reminded his father.

“I did,” Jeremy agreed, “and yet, forgive me, my son, I envisaged your part as more of a final veto. Not the actual selector of my bride.”

Teddy leaned against the cushioned seat and closed his eyes. “I’m quite worn out,” he sighed dramatically. “Arbuthnot’s mother talks a lot. She’s rather like a buzzing fly when one’s trying to sleep.” He frowned. “I’m glad my mama was not like that, even though she did shout and scream and hit the servants.”

“Your mama had her faults,” Jeremy mused, “but a crushing bore, she was not.”

“How soon before you procure my next one?” Teddy enquired.

“Next what?”

“Mama.”

Jeremy blinked. “Well, er, these things take time, my boy. It has not been a full twelve months since my divorce, and—”

“That’s nearly a year,” Teddy pointed out critically.

“Maybe so, but people have strong opinions on divorce, which only the passage of time can assuage.”

“Mama has remarried, has she not? That French man who owns the gambling den in Paris.”

Jeremy winced. “Who told you that? Besides, he’s Italian.”

“Mrs. Oxley,” Teddy responded promptly.

“Mrs. Oxley, our cook at Vance Park?” Jeremy asked carefully.

Teddy nodded. “Well, she wasn’t telling me, precisely,” he admitted. “She was telling Iverson the undergardener. I just happened to be under the kitchen table at the time, eating a treacle tart.”

Jeremy closed his eyes briefly. “Of course you were.”

“She said Mama’s papa may have been an earl, but she was no better than she ought to be .”

Jeremy thought it best not to comment on this damning indictment of his ex-wife’s morals. “Mrs. Oxley makes a very good treacle tart, does she not?” he murmured instead.

“The best,” Teddy agreed. “Gosh, they didn’t serve desserts like that at Paverton Hall,” he said, naming the select boarding school that he had once attended. He looked suddenly wistful. “I just bet I could eat one of Mrs. Oxley’s tarts about now,” he said sadly.

Jeremy was just glad Teddy was not about to turn teary-eyed over his old school. His son had despised the place when he had been there but recently, he had turned somewhat sentimental about that period of his life. Doubtless it was all part of his depressed spirits following his illness. “It’s a good sign your appetite is returning,” he said aloud. “Shall we stop at the bakery and pick up some iced buns?”

Teddy shook his head. “I don’t care for them,” he said irritably. “They always taste stale from Fritton’s.”

“How about the bakery on Gideon Street?” Jeremy suggested.

Teddy pulled a face. “They’re even worse.”

“Then, what do you say to getting an ice from Marshall’s?”

Teddy’s expression wavered. He had a weakness for strawberry ices. “No,” he sighed. “In any case, they would be shut at this hour.”

Jeremy reached for his pocket watch and was forced to concur. “Tomorrow, then,” he suggested. “We could go for luncheon there.”

“Arthur invited me to his house again tomorrow,” Teddy said without any great enthusiasm.

“I think not,” Jeremy said swiftly. “We could not possibly impose on the Arbuthnots’ kindness anymore. You have already spent three afternoons under their roof in the past week. What is your papa supposed to do with himself all day with no society? I will grow lonely.”

“You could come along. Mrs. Arbuthnot said to tell you that you were always welcome.”

Jeremy suppressed a shudder. “Surely you and Arthur have caught up on all your reminiscences by this point. Good lord, you were only at Paverton Preparatory for nine months!”

Teddy shrugged, looking suddenly washed-out. A flicker of enthusiasm lit up his disinterested gaze. “We could call on Miss Ballentine,” he suggested, and Jeremy had to work to keep his expression unruffled.

“It must have been some ten years or so ago that we were acquainted, my son. It is more than likely that Miss Ballentine is no more.”

“She’s not dead, Papa!” Teddy responded with spirit, clearly suspecting his father of trying to wriggle out of the obligation. “Arthur’s mother said she has lodgings in Winkworth Street!”

“I meant,” Jeremy explained painstakingly, ignoring the strange skip in his chest at hearing she was in Bath, “that after all this time, the lady is more than likely married already.”

“Oh no,” Teddy said, shaking his head. “No, she’s not. Mrs. Arbuthnot said her papa could not bring anyone up to scratch, even though he was rich as Jesus in those days.”

Jeremy cleared his throat, concentrating on his son’s words, rather than his strange reaction to them. He doubted very much that a Galilean carpenter’s wealth equated that of a wealthy cit. “Is it possible you mean ‘Croesus’?” he enquired politely.

“It’s possible,” Teddy conceded generously. “In any case, her papa’s not rich anymore. Arthur’s mother said he lost it all on the ‘change.”

“The Exchange,” Jeremy corrected him absently. That would make sense, for the direction of Winkworth Street eluded him. Most likely it was not in a fashionable quarter of town.

“Yes,” Teddy agreed. “So, Mrs. Arbuthnot says she does not even have to ’knowledge her anymore .”

“Acknowledge,” Jeremy supplied.

“Yes, what does that mean, Papa?”

“It means, my boy, that Mrs. Arbuthnot has quite appalling manners. I do not think we should consider her a reliable source when it comes to Papa’s past behavior. Are we agreed?”

“What about Miss Ballentine?” Teddy asked, a mutinous cast to his features.

“Naturally I shall look up my old acquaintance, Miss Ballentine, whilst we are in Bath,” Jeremy responded coolly. “It would be most remiss of me not to.”

Just for a moment, he allowed himself to remember Emmeline Ballentine as she had been on that last evening. Plump, pretty Emmeline in her frilly white gown, with her curling red-gold hair done up and framing her face in ringlets. Orange blossoms, yes, of course. Hawford’s conservatory. Shall I give you something to remember me by, Ballentine?

Not his finest hour. Then, other memories, less pleasant, seeped from the breached vault, making him wince. Her openly admiring gaze across a ballroom. The offhand comments he would make to the other young bucks, the barely hidden smirks and laughter. He had made Emmeline a figure of fun that season, for entirely selfish reasons. He wanted nothing more than to forget how he had behaved. Didn’t he?

He sat back in his seat, breathing deeply. Then why had he just promised his son that he would renew the acquaintance? And why was his pulse racing so damn fast at the prospect of seeing her again? He was sure she would be a good deal older and wiser now, despite the fact she had never married.

She was certainly far less likely to be receptive of his attentions. Not after that announcement that same night as the conservatory and the orange blossoms and…all the rest of that wretched business.

Would she still be the same sweet girl he had known, and would she play along and reassure his child that he had not acted like the worst kind of cad toward her? He had no idea, but he knew one thing. He wanted to find out. Badly.

*

Fritton’s Bakery, Bath

The queue at Fritton’s was longer than usual for this time of day. Seeing the assistant turn obligingly to the man to her left, Emmie leaned against the counter, letting her mind wander back once more to the worrying letter she had received that morning from Mr. Hardiman, the senior clerk at her father’s firm.

It had been plaguing her ever since, and her stomach turned over once again as her thoughts returned queasily to the doom-laden words. Mr. Hardiman was a quiet, cautious sort and not given to exaggeration of any kind. If he was using phrases like “dire straits” in connection with her late father’s business concerns, then things must be bleak indeed.

But, if that was the case, then why on earth had Humphrey not been in touch? Even more worrying, whatever would she do for income if the business really was in trouble? The amount she received from her father’s shares had dwindled alarmingly in the past eighteen months. She and Pinky had already downgraded their lodgings in Bath twice in the past year.

“Is all well, dear?” her companion and friend, Hannah Pinson, asked timorously. She tipped her head to one side in her typically birdlike fashion. “You look quite peaky. Indeed, I have been wondering all day if you might not be a little under the weather.”

“I’m fine, Pinky dear,” Emmie assured her bracingly, and turned back to face front. Poor Pinky would be a nervous wreck if she knew they were staring potential ruin in the face. The last thing Emmie wanted to do now was heap more worries onto those narrow shoulders, not until it was strictly necessary.

“Now, have you decided in which delicacy we shall partake?” Emmie asked brightly, her eyes scanning the pastries on offer. Today was the last Friday of the month, which meant Emmie had received her banker’s draft and they always had some indulgence treat for tea.

Pinky, for that was what Emmie had called her since childhood, peered shortsightedly over the counter. “Oh dear,” she fretted. “I am sure coconut tarts did not used to be so expensive. And as for those cherry cakes, why, you used to get two for that price and I am sure they used to be twice the size!”

Emmie shot a sidelong glance at her friend. Perhaps Pinky was not so sweetly oblivious to their financial plight after all. “We can afford a little splurge on the day I receive my stipend, dear,” she said bravely, trying not to think of how small this month’s payout had been.

“Well, in that case…” Pinky hesitated. “Perhaps the iced buns?” she suggested, naming the cheapest thing available. “I have always had a decided weakness for them.”

“My favorite!” Emmie lied, feeling vastly relieved for her, even though she knew for a fact that cream horns were her friend’s true weakness. They beamed at one another reassuringly, and having procured a paper bag of iced buns, exited the shop, and proceeded cordially down the street together arm in arm.

“Did you have any books to return to the lending library?” Emmie asked, as she once again fretted over the fact she had not received a letter from Humphrey in, oh, it must be some three or four weeks now. He was not just her fiancé, but also the man running her late father’s firm, Ballentine’s Trading Company.

The profits had never soared, not once in the ten years since her father had passed. Humphrey, his able second-in-command, had always been viewed as “safe hands” rather than brilliant. Emmie suppressed a sigh now, thinking of her father’s last words. Had Father, once so instinctive about matters of business, been entirely wrong about trusting all to Humphrey?

She had clung doggedly to her father’s instruction, despite the dwindling income. She had seen it not only as a matter of loyalty to her fiancé, but also her father’s memory, but perhaps after all, she should have hired someone new for the position after the downward trend of profits in the first five years. Things had not improved as Humphrey had sworn they would if they just had faith and weathered the storm. Instead, they had gotten steadily worse.

“Emmie?” Pinky touched her sleeve, jolting her out of her gloomy reverie. “What is it? Have you—have you had bad news? Is it…Humphrey?”

“Humphrey?” Emmie was startled by the question. “Good gracious, no. I have not heard from him in weeks.” Instead of looking reassured by this confidence, her friend looked even more disturbed. Emmie took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, dear. I was woolgathering, do not pay me any heed. Now, tell me, how are you getting on with Love’s Innocence Fled and how is beleaguered Josephine faring? I’m simply itching to know.”

Josephine was the heroine in the novel Pinky was currently reading. Since they had moved from London eight years ago, their social circle had vastly reduced. As an heiress to her father’s fortune, living in a large London house, Emmie had friends and acquaintances galore. They had been invited to dinner parties, soirees, and coffee mornings every week.

A shabby gentlewoman and her companion, living in straitened circumstances in Bath, simply did not possess such a social circle. These days she and Pinky had one another to rely on. Novels were heaven-sent. They read them avidly and spoke of their plots as though they were present events in their lives, and the characters within their pages as people they actually knew. It greatly enriched their rather colorless day to day.

“Did she find her beloved Fernando at the Venice Opera House as the mysterious note intimated, or was it all a cruel ruse by that scoundrel, the count?” Emmie persisted.

Pinky brightened. “Now, how did you guess?” she marveled. “I was never so shocked as when poor Josephine took the amulet to the appointed meeting place only to find herself confronted by that wicked Count Stefano!” Pinky tutted. “I tell you, the lengths that villain will go to simply to get poor Josephine in his clutches, you would hardly credit it, my dear.”

“I daresay I would not,” Emmie murmured, thinking that her own fiancé could scarcely cobble a letter together for her these days, despite the fact she had not seen him since New Year’s. Briefly, she wondered what it might be like to be pursued by a man like Stefano, who would jump through so many hoops in pursuit of his beloved.

It was no good, she simply could not imagine it. Perhaps because she had no experience of being the fair pursued. Even in the early days of their courtship, she could never describe Humphrey as being anything other than terribly polite in his wooing.

“Alas,” Pinky sighed sadly, “poor Fernando is so unworldly, dear man, that he simply does not realize the peril Josephine faces as a beauteous and virtuous maiden quite alone in the world.” A tear sprang to Pinky’s eye. “His devotion to his art, though noble, blinds him at times to her plight.”

“Perhaps she would be better off with Stefano,” Emmie replied without thinking. “At least he is not so oblivious to her struggles and promises to drape her in all manner of luxury if she would only succumb to his wicked lures.” Emmie could not quite keep the envious note from her voice. She could do with a few worldly goods about now. She had been forced to sell her own diamond brooch three winters ago.

Pinky gasped. “Oh no, dear! That would not do at all! Count Stefano is a man quite steeped in sin with the very worst of reputations attached to his name. Indeed, no one in polite Venetian society would allow him to darken their doorstep. As his wife, Josephine would never receive any invitations to parties and routs and all those masked balls they always seem to have in that part of the world.”

“Yes, I suppose that would count against him,” Emmie replied doubtfully. “Though why should Josephine care if all of polite society bars their doors against her? Married to the count, she would have her own ballroom to dance in, and her own staff to load her dining table with delicacies, would she not?”

“Yes, but there would be no one to dine with at the dinner table, and no one to dance with, save for the wicked count himself,” Pinky pointed out with a shudder.

“True, but Stefano might be a very good dancer,” Emmie speculated. “In my experience, the Fernandos of this world tend to tread on toes.” Fleetingly, she imagined Humphrey, stolid, dependable Humphrey, in the role of Fernando. Quite ludicrous really, as Humphrey did not have an artistic bone in his body, and moreover quite despised unworldly types. He was a lamentably poor dancer though, with no sense of timing or rhythm.

Casting the role of the wicked count was distressingly easy, even after all these years. She didn’t have to think about it. The honorable, or should she say dishonorable Jeremy Vance sprang to mind immediately, in all his despicable glory. He had been such a beautiful dancer though! So graceful and… oh , Pinky was talking again. She gave her head a quick shake to dismiss her errant thoughts.

“There may be something in what you say,” Pinky was musing. “One of the rectors at my father’s church was a most proficient country dancer, and then later, it turned out that he had a dreadful weakness for gambling hells and would visit them every time he traveled to Tunbridge Wells.”

The idea of gambling hells in Tunbridge Wells sounded so incongruous that Emmie blinked. “Was this the rector who drank too much elderberry wine one Christmas, and outraged your cousin Winifred, or the one who loathed cats?” she asked.

“Oh no, dear, it was quite another one to both of those. We had dozens of rectors trooping through the doors of St. Wulstan’s,” she sighed. “Such happy times.” She dabbed a handkerchief to the corners of her eyes.

Recollections of her childhood always turned Pinky sentimental. Her parents had had her very late in life and as a consequence, she had lost them both young. “Now, what were we saying?” Pinky asked, having lost the thread of the conversation.

“You were speaking of the den of iniquity that is Tunbridge Wells,” Emmie replied gravely.

“Oh! Oh, dear me, no, I did not mean to imply that Tunbridge Wells was anything less than wholesome. I had a great-uncle who resided there for many years, most happily. My uncle Randolph. I daresay, it was merely a game of cards the rector used to indulge in within the parlor of some gentleman acquaintance,” she reflected. “But you see, Mama always referred to Mr. Anstruther as frequenting ‘gambling hells,’ though whether it was in jest, or out of naivety, I really could not say after such a passage of time.”

Emmie laughed and squeezed her friend’s arm. “I expect she said it in fun,” she said, “to tease your father, the vicar.”

Pinky’s eyes turned misty. “Yes,” she agreed. “They were always so fond of one another, always. Everyone remarked upon it, even my aunt Harriet. To be as devoted after forty years married as you were on your wedding day must be a wonderful thing.”

Emmie tried to imagine how she would feel about Humphrey after forty years. In truth, she had felt surer of him ten years ago than she did now. She sighed. “A feat indeed,” she agreed. They walked the rest of the way in near silence, both lost in their own thoughts, until they reached the peeling green door of number six, where they rented rooms on the second floor.

Florrie, the maid of all work who belonged to their landlady who lived on the ground floor, opened the door at once. “Here you are at last, Miss Ballentine!” she said excitedly, ushering them inside. “Almost thought you’d got lost, you been gone such an age.”

Pinky tutted, for she did not approve of Florrie’s manner, but she did it so faintly that the smart little maid barely noticed. Not that she’d care, for Florrie thought Pinky a poor, drab creature.

“Are we late?” Emmie asked in surprise, reaching for the watch she’d pawned two weeks ago. Her fingers closing on thin air, she turned instead to glance at the grandfather clock stood solidly in the hallway. “It is a little after five, Florrie. We are not so very late.”

“You’ve ’ad a caller, miss, ever such a gent, ’e was,” Florrie gabbled excitedly. “Lovely calling card all edged in gilt and such manners.” She sighed ecstatically.

“Humphrey?” Emmie asked, pausing in the act of removing her hatpin.

“Not ’im!” Florrie burst out in disgust. “This one tips!”

“Perhaps if you presented his calling card that might clear up the confusion,” Pinky suggested mildly.

Florrie regarded Pinky with narrowed eyes a moment, as though imagining some slight. Then, grudgingly, she reached into her apron pocket to retrieve the card. She glanced at it one last time, then sighed, and handed it over.

Viscount Faris , Emmie read in elegant copperplate beneath an elaborately embossed crest. Who the deuce was that? She turned it over to read the elegant scrawl on the back.

Dear Miss Ballentine, I have recently come to Bath, for my son’s convalescence. If it would be convenient for me to call on an old friend one morning this week, I would be grateful for the opportunity to introduce the two of you and renew our acquaintance. J.V.

If anything, Emmie’s bafflement grew. She was sure she had never met a Viscount Faris in her life! “Er, thank you, Florrie,” she murmured, unsure how else to respond, and turned toward the stair.

“What about your answer, then?” Florrie demanded indignantly.

Emmie swung back around. “Did he leave some direction for it?”

Wordlessly, Florrie crossed to the hall window and lifted the lace curtain. Greatly puzzled, Emmie walked over to join her and stood gazing out in growing astonishment. Somehow she and Pinky had entirely failed to notice a luxurious-looking carriage parked on the opposite side of the street.

“ Whoever is it, Emmie?” Pinky asked in hushed tones, appearing suddenly at her elbow.

“I hardly know,” Emmie confessed. “If this was one of our novels, Pinky dear, it would be a rich and heretofore unknown uncle, come to—” She broke off her words abruptly as the carriage door swung open, and an elegant figure stepped out.

Emmie gasped, and for a moment, time stood still as she remained frozen, a hand to her throat and her mouth hanging open. Surely, that could not be… Just then, the late afternoon sun appeared from behind a cloud, and its rays struck his impeccably styled hair, making it gleam as gold as a newly minted guinea.

The spell was broken, and she could finally move. “Oh dear,” Emmie quavered, slumping against the wall. She felt quite weak and shaken. “ Count Stefano .”

“What?” Pinky gasped, her head whipping around. Emmie wasn’t attending. Instead, she remained where she was, her eyes glued to the immaculate vision unhurriedly crossing the street. He was every bit as devastatingly handsome as she remembered him.

Jeremy Vance had appeared from her past, like some bad fairy she had conjured by foolishly speaking his name aloud. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Her common sense immediately rebelled. This was nothing to do with the fact she had allowed herself to think of him this afternoon! It was just some…horrible coincidence.

Besides, she told herself uneasily, she had not actually spoken his name. She had been speaking of wicked Count Stefano, which was an entirely different thing. The three women watched transfixed as he approached their front steps, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was being avidly observed.

Oh God, Emmie thought, dry-mouthed. All this time, she had told herself he could not possibly be so good-looking. It just wasn’t fair, she thought, her bosom swelling with indignation, that the passage of time had not marred his appearance in any way. If anything, he had grown even more attractive. It was monstrously unjust!

Drawing herself up, she turned to Florrie. “Allow Miss Pinson and myself three minutes to reach our sitting room, and then show him up,” she instructed with as much dignity as she could muster. Florrie nodded fervently as Emmie turned to her friend. “Come along, Pinky dear.”

Pinky made haste to comply, even managing to hold her tongue as they hurried up the stairs to their own rooms. Moving swiftly, they hung their bonnets on their pegs, and set their reticules and gloves down on the rickety side table used for that expressed purpose.

Only once they were comfortably seated did Pinky lean forward to whisper urgently, “You are alright, dear, aren’t you?”

Emmie nodded but mercifully there was no chance to speak further, for Florrie was knocking on the door. She flung it open, cleared her throat, and announced importantly, “Count Stefano!”

Jeremy Vance, or rather, Viscount Faris as he was apparently now known, paused, a faint pucker appearing between his brows. Still, he advanced into the room, assured as ever, his eyes on Emmeline’s face as she rose to give him her curtesy.

“Miss Ballentine,” he said, his own bow grace itself. “It has been too long, and yet, I would have recognized you anywhere.”

“You are too kind. Allow me to present my friend and companion, Miss Hannah Pinson.”

He turned at once to Pinky. “I am delighted to meet you,” he said with a charming smile. Emmie was glad that Pinky was on her guard, or she might have been completely taken in by such beautiful manners. As it was, her friend merely curtseyed, her eyes wary, her face tight with concern.

“Please be seated, my lord,” Emmie said, gesturing toward a spoon-back armchair, which was their best and did not match the rest of the room, since it was a relic from more affluent times.

Lord Faris hesitated slightly before seating himself. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time,” he said. “It appears you are expecting someone else’s company at present.” When they gazed blankly back at him, he said, “A certain Count Stefano?”

Pinky went off into a coughing fit and Emmie felt a hot flush start crawling up her neck.

“That was a simple misunderstanding only,” she said hastily. “I do apologize. It was my fault; Florrie mistook my meaning.”

He waved this off. “So long as my poor company is not a crushing disappointment in his stead.”

“How could it be?” Emmie said brightly. “You are a count yourself, are you not? A viscount no less, and no longer a mere honorable.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a gleam appearing in his eye. What had he been about to say? Emmie found herself wondering. Likely, something about never being honorable in his life, she guessed. Then, something seemed to occur to him, and the laughter abruptly vanished from his eyes. “The title,” he said softly, “you did not realize who I was.” He shot her a look of disconcerting frankness. “Am I still welcome, Emmeline? Now that you know it is me.”

Emmie’s stomach lurched. Emmeline? She did not dare look at Pinky, who was doubtless scandalized by such familiarity. She was shocked herself. No one called her Emmeline. He had certainly not done so during her London season. Instead, he had called her “Ballentine,” a form of address equally improper, though more contemptuous than overfamiliar.

Still, the unaccustomed look on his face as he asked made her feel quite unequal to upbraiding him. He looked almost unsure of himself. She plastered a smile to her face. “Of course you are welcome!” Emmie declared. “You have certainly grown a good deal more modest in the past decade it seems. Pinky,” she said, turning to her friend, “during my brief time as a debutante, Viscount Faris, or rather, the Honorable Jeremy Vance as he was known then, was quite the most eligible bachelor of my season.”

Pinky’s eyes widened and she nodded, looking from Emmie to Lord Faris. “How interesting,” she said politely.

“I don’t know that I would put it quite in those terms,” he said with a rueful smile.

“On the contrary, that is exactly how you put it,” Emmie corrected him. “In fact, those were the very words you used to me, on the occasion of our first dance at Lady Halford’s ball. ‘Ballentine,’ you said, ‘I am sure our host has informed you, but should she have neglected the fact, you happen to be dancing with the most eligible man in London.’”

She had meant to put him to the blush, but unfortunately, halfway through the anecdote, Emmie realized she was confessing she had memorized his every word. How embarrassing.

Lord Faris stared at her, his lips parted and his breath coming fast. The air in the sitting room seemed strangely oppressive somehow. Never had Emmie been so grateful for the fact she had a chaperone. She had the oddest feeling Pinky’s presence was the only thing keeping the situation from falling apart completely.

Suddenly, he laughed. “What an insufferable blackguard I must have been. Could you ever find it in your heart to forgive me, do you think?”

Nonsense, of course, to imagine the flippant words meant anything to him. “Whatever could there be for me to forgive, my lord?” she asked, opening her eyes wide and matching his light tone. “You spoke nothing but the truth in any case. Several people had already apprised me of that same fact over the course of the evening. I was profoundly grateful you deigned to notice me, and single me out for a dance. It was the highlight of my evening, I assure you.”

His eyes held hers for a breathless moment, until finally, he inclined his head. “You are too gracious, Miss Ballentine. It is still Miss Ballentine, I take it?”

“Miss Ballentine is engaged to be married, my lord,” Pinky interjected firmly, surprising them both. She then ruined this by adding, “And has been anytime these past ten years.”

“Ten years?” His tone was faintly incredulous, his brows, surprisingly dark for his golden hair, shot up.

“Yes,” Emmie agreed in a choked voice. “Dear Humphrey resides in London and is busy running my late father’s business there. Alas, we have had to put our marriage plans on hold.”

“Is that so?” His tone was polite, but it still stung somehow.

“And how is your lady wife?” Emmie heard herself ask with a faint edge to her voice. Amanda Liversedge had been one of the most beautiful girls she had ever met. Beautiful and remote. Emmie doubted very much that she would ever deign to visit.

“Ah, you have not heard that news either, it seems,” he replied. “Amanda is no longer my wife.”

“No longer…?”

He met her gaze. “We are divorced.” Pinky gasped, sparing Emmeline the necessity. “Yes,” he agreed, without looking away from Emmie’s face, “shocking, is it not?”

Emmie blinked. “How fortunate you have a title now, and your reputation can survive such an infamous thing.”

He laughed again. “Fortunate indeed, for me.”

Finding herself a little unnerved, Emmie decided the best thing to do was not allow any uncomfortable silences. “You mentioned a son, I think?” she said, clearing her throat. “In your note.”

“Yes, I have a son. Edward. He recently turned nine.”

“And desirous of an introduction to me apparently?”

His smile grew. “You think this strange?”

“A little,” she confessed.

Again, he seemed to consider his words before speaking. “My son was most unwell three months ago with scarlet fever.”

In spite of herself, Pinky could not help from uttering, “Oh dear, the poor child!”

Viscount Faris flashed her a grateful smile. “We were fortunate that Teddy was spared. At one point the doctor feared he might contract pneumonia, but he has a strong constitution, and slowly recovered his strength. His spirits, though, have been somewhat depressed by the experience. I find he lacks his customary vivacity. I hoped that bringing him to Bath might restore the color in his cheeks.”

Emmie nodded politely, though she still could not see what this had to do with her. “You have been reminiscing with your son, perhaps of your own youth?” she hazarded, though it seemed a strange thing for him to do.

He blanched slightly. “Good God no! I do not take him for my confessor!”

“I admit that did seem rather odd to me,” Emmie said without thinking as Pinky bridled slightly at the casual blasphemy. Jeremy—or rather, Lord Faris, as she should think of him now—smirked instead of taking offence.

“I have been indulging Teddy’s every whim since we hit Bath,” he admitted. “Whatever tickles his fancy. Sadly, his latest caprice is a fondness for the company of one Arthur Arbuthnot, who was briefly a school friend. We bumped into him at the botanical gardens, and they have been joined at the hip ever since.” His tone was dry.

Emmie kept a vague smile on her lips, though the name frankly conveyed nothing to her. “It seems you do not care for young Arthur?” she ventured.

“Arthur, a slightly dull and adenoidal child, is not the problem. His mother, however, is quite a different matter. She was a Skellern.”

A ripple of unease ran up Emmie’s spine. “A Skellern,” she repeated, immediately remembering someone of that name from her debut. A pretty yet spiteful face sprang to mind, giving her pause. “As in…Lily Skellern?”

“I forget her Christian name,” he answered with a shrug. “A wholly unremarkable woman, save for her marked lack of tact and discretion.”

“I came out in the same season as Lily Skellern,” Emmie confided, keeping her tone carefully expressionless. “She resides now in Bath, I believe, and is married to a banker.” She shot a look at Pinky to whom she pointed out Lily Skellern on more than one occasion, when their paths had crossed. Every time, she had been pointedly and exaggeratedly ignored by that lady. Pinky’s lips formed an O of understanding.

“Ah. That sounds the very one,” Lord Faris replied. “You were debutantes together? You have my profound sympathy. I have avoided her wherever possible these past five days. Her conversation is execrable. Sadly, in my absence, she has seen fit to regale my son with questionable tales from my past.” He sent Emmie a significant look, and she tensed slightly.

“I see,” she muttered, feeling her color rise. She dared not look at Pinky, who had not been a fixture in her life during her disastrous season. Her father had dismissed poor Pinky as far too dowdy and unfashionable to act as Emmie’s chaperone. Instead, she had been accompanied by the well-connected Mrs. Laverdale, who had been a good deal laxer in her duties.

Perhaps if Pinky had been there, Emmie would never have acted like such a fool and… She gave a little gasp and shook her head to dispel such unpleasant memories. She opened her mouth to ask what sort of thing Lily Skellern had been saying but found she did not really want to know.

Silly to feel humiliated about such an inconsequential thing, especially when she had far more pressing problems these days. “I dread to think what nonsense she has been telling your son,” she heard herself say with an empty laugh. It did not come out as convincing as she had hoped it would.

“Just a lot of spite and nonsense,” he said after a heavy pause. “I realize this is a severe imposition, Miss Ballentine, and I have no right to ask this of you, but I was wondering—”

“If I would meet with young Edward and assure him we were always the best of good friends?” she supplied brightly.

He did not speak for a moment, then said, “Precisely.”

Emmie felt a burning surge of indignation rise up in her chest. Rise above it , Emmie , she told herself. It was all water under the bridge. This pretty, spiteful person had no power to hurt her anymore. Be the better person . Besides, it was a chance for her to rewrite an embarrassing episode of her past that did not reflect well on her.

She rose from her seat, holding her hand out to him. “But of course I will!” she said, plastering a smile to her face.

For a moment, he looked a little taken aback. Then, he, too, stood up and accepted her proffered hand in a tentative shake.

“You are generous, Miss Ballentine,” he murmured, and she whipped her hand away before he could do something like lift it to his well-formed lips.

“Not at all, Lord Faris,” she replied briskly, only too aware that she had offered him scant hospitality and nothing at all by way of refreshment. “It would not inconvenience me in the slightest to reassure your son on that score. Now, if you do not mind, Miss Pinson and I have plans this evening…”

“Of course,” he answered swiftly.

“I hate to rush you out of our door,” she said insincerely.

“You have been more than generous with your time,” he assured her. “As to time and place, I have a suggestion. How would tomorrow morning suit you?”

Emmie suffered an unpleasant jolt that she could only hope did not show on her face. She would not get a wink of sleep tonight with such a prospect in front of her. Then again, she reflected, perhaps it would be better to get the ordeal over with at once, rather than delaying it. “Tomorrow morning would suit admirably.”

“We could meet you here at…ten o’clock?” he suggested.

“Ten o’clock?” she repeated blankly.

“I thought we could go for a walk in the park.”

Emmie quickly considered this. Yes, it was a good idea. Neutral territory. She need never have him intrude on her ever again. Then, too, it would spare her the necessity of having to provide some elegant repast for their visit. “A walk in the park would be very pleasant.” She turned to Pinky. “Do you agree, Hannah?” Pinky hesitated, then nodded, looking from Emmie to Lord Faris and then quickly back again.

With a sinking heart, Emmie realized Pinky was picking up on the underlying tension. She smiled reassuringly at her and then turned back to accompany Lord Faris to the door. He took his leave of her with punctilious politeness and instead of watching him descend the flight of stairs with his elegant tread, she turned and closed the door firmly behind her.

“Well,” she said lightly, “that was certainly unexpected.”

“Shall I fetch the tea things?” Pinky asked, clearly feeling in need of a fortifying cup.

“Yes, please,” Emmie concurred, though she had never felt less like tucking into an iced bun.

*

Emmie turned in early, after fending off Pinky’s gentle quizzing over supper. Her friend was clearly agog with curiosity but far too delicate in her sensibilities to prod more than lightly. Emmie found herself profoundly grateful for Pinky’s tact, for what could she even say by way of explanation? It was all such foolish stuff and hardly worth the fuss and pother her nerves were making of it. She was quite cross with herself.

She knew full well that she had made an utter cake of herself all those years ago. She had always known, even at the time. She had just not cared in the dizzy moment. The Honorable Jeremy Vance had been the most glamorous and dazzling figure in what was, for her, a very dismal London season indeed.

No one else had wanted to pass the time with the dumpy, ill-connected daughter of a cit. Even her paid sponsor, Mrs. Laverdale, had scarcely hidden her embarrassment at the distasteful task of foisting Emmie on polite society. If it had not been for the honorable Jeremy, she would barely have stood up for a dance.

She had been under no illusions, despite what her fellow debutantes had whispered to one another behind their fans. Emmie had known the whole time that he was only playing with her, but she had not cared. Not one bit.

Jeremy Vance had been quite the most charming and certainly the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld, and when he was whirling her about the dance floor, it had been so easy to forget how excruciating the whole miserable charade of her London season was.

When she had been escorted about a hot ballroom on his arm, she had simply not cared how horribly out place she was, among all those daughters of the peerage. Indeed, she had not even felt out of place in those moments, for nothing had touched her.

She had felt surrounded by a warm glow in his presence. Her step had felt light and dainty, and her heart had felt fluttery in her chest. She had beamed at his every remark, and she was sure she had craned her neck for a glimpse of him at every miserable assembly room she had been herded into.

Her patron, Mrs. Laverdale, had felt compelled to warn Emmie that she was being made a fool of, and that his intentions were not serious. Her warning had been wholly unnecessary. Emmie had not the smallest expectation Jeremy Vance ever offering for her. Such a notion was laughable. She could not even begrudge the barely suppressed titters. Not really.

Thinking of it now, Emmie did wince. She must have looked like such a little idiot, hanging off his every word but the fact was that if it had not been for those snatched moments, her societal debut would have been pure, unalleviated misery. He had enlivened her horrible London season, and she had never begrudged him his fun, even though it had been at her expense.

Of course, she had felt terribly low when she heard of his subsequent marriage to Lady Amanda Liversedge, and their honeymoon in Florence at the end of the season. The least said about her, the better. Lady Amanda had matched the honorable Jeremy in both beauty and rank, and that was all these dreadful society people cared about.

Emmie had wrapped up the dance cards he had written his name on, so boldly and so often, in tissue paper along with a pair of gloves that had touched his arm and an ivory fan that he had once taken out of her hand to wave in her reddened face. Placing them in a rosewood box, she had consigned them, and him, firmly to the past.

Until he showed up at her front door.

Oh God, she hoped she had managed to preserve some semblance at least of a calm, placid front, though inside she had been a churning mess. It was perhaps not surprising that Pinky should suspect something was amiss. After all, Pinky had known her since she was a sticky five-year-old.

Then, too, there had been that indiscreet comment she had made about Count Stefano . So stupid to blurt that out like that! No wonder Pinky was eyeing her askance after she had named Lord Faris after the villain in Pinky’s latest novel. She could kick herself, really!

She washed and undressed for bed, her stomach still fluttering, and her face flushed. As she tied the ribbons on her nightgown, she hoped and prayed that her cool smiles were fooling Jeremy Vance. The thought of him being aware of her inner turmoil was just too humiliating to be borne!

Climbing into bed, she comforted herself that she would just have to bear up through this meeting with his child, and then the ordeal would be over. Lord Faris could ride away to his life of privilege, and she would be left to her own of increasing privation.

Then suddenly, it struck her. She had not thought once of Mr. Hardiman’s letter since Jeremy Vance had crossed the street and knocked on her front door. No, nor of Humphrey. She sucked in a breath. The break from constant money worries would have been more beneficial if it had not been chased away by other uncomfortable recollections. How about I give you something to remember me by, Ballentine? Unbidden, the words sprang into her mind, making her ears burn from memory alone. She ought to have slapped him, not trotted after him like an eager spaniel into that dratted conservatory.

The nerve of him. The absolute nerve ! And then to expect her collaboration in hoodwinking his innocent child into believing him entirely blameless? Shameless. Clearly, he had not changed one bit. Oh, she would do it alright. Anything to be rid of the wretched man.

Anything to expunge the sense of shame and embarrassment she felt over that last disastrous night at Lady Hawford’s ball. Maybe this little interlude would help her rewrite her role, even if it was only in her own mind? To recast herself as fellow conspirator, instead of lovesick little fool.

He’s laughing at you; can’t you see that? But Mrs. Laverdale’s warning had come too late. Clasping the pillow to her head, Emmie rolled over and tried to quiet the clamoring memories and block them out of her poor head.