2

Emmie awoke early the next morning, ridiculously early, her stomach knotted with dread. Before she had even opened her eyes, she had remembered who was coming to the house this morning at ten. Viscount Faris. She lay tossing and turning for half an hour and then decided she might as well get up.

She dressed with care in her mauve walking dress, which would be ideal for the park. Then she kept herself busy by going downstairs and preparing a light breakfast for herself and Pinky. Checking the meagre contents of their personal cupboard, she boiled them an egg apiece and toasted the end of their loaf to disguise the fact it was rather stale.

Sadly, the butter dish was empty, and she had been sure they had a scraping of butter left from the previous day. Emmie wondered if the Startrites, the family occupying the third floor, might have helped themselves to the last of it. That was the worst part of sharing a kitchen. Ruefully, Emmie reflected that until three years ago she had truly had no notion about such things as shared kitchens. What a privileged life she had led!

She climbed the stairs now, bearing the heavy tray laden with the tea set and breakfast plates. As she neared the top, Pinky’s small, neat figure appeared there.

“Oh, Emmie!” she exclaimed with dismay. “I was just on my way down. You know it is my turn today. How wickedly indulgent of you to let me sleep in!”

“Nonsense,” Emmie answered briskly. “You know I like to do it.”

Pinky bit her lip. “Was your sleep troubled, dear?”

“Not at all,” Emmie lied smoothly. “Why? Do I still look peaky this morning?”

“Oh no! Of course not!” Pinky murmured, following close on her heels. “You look charming. You always look so pretty in that mauve gown. I remember your father remarking on it one time.”

Emmie was surprised to hear that, remembering her father’s usually critical words about her appearance. Well, Emmie, after all, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear . “Did he? I do not recall. I suppose I have had this gown a few years now.” She glanced down, wondering if it looked dated and shabby.

“Oh, I did not mean…” Pinky trailed off awkwardly. “That is, it still looks very smart, I am sure.”

“Your grandmama’s brooch looks nice,” Emmie answered, nodding to Pinky’s lace collar. She always thought the pretty pink cameo looked so much nicer than the ugly jet mourning brooch Pinky habitually wore.

“Oh! Thank you, dear.” Pinky flushed. “I thought as we were walking out with company today, I might wear it.” She hurried after her as Emmie made her way into their parlor and set down the tea things on the tiny table in the corner which the two of them dined upon.

Pinky fetched the napkins and silver from a rather cumbersome corner cabinet which was frankly too large for the current room it found itself in. She would have to sell it, Emmie thought, before they moved again. They really did not need anything so large and ostentatious these days. Especially as most of the silver and all the good china had already been sold.

Pinky was still wearing a worried look on her face as they laid the table. Emmie made a concerted effort to look cheerful. “Well, we have fine weather this morning. Blue skies,” she observed, glancing toward the window as she pulled out her seat. “How fortuitous to have a little sunshine for our walk in the park.”

“Oh yes,” Pinky agreed dutifully as they sat down opposite one another. “Very lucky.”

Emmie held up the plate of toast and extended it toward her. “I’m afraid there is no butter to be had today.”

Pinky helped herself to a slice immediately. “For my part, I sometimes think butter tastes a little rich when paired with an egg yolk,” she insisted . Dear Pinky , Emmie thought with a surge of affection. Whatever would she have done without her? “Oh, this egg is perfect, Emmie. Just as it should be, with a runny yolk and a nice, firm white.”

Emmie smiled. Thus had Pinky praised her when she was a young girl still learning her lessons. She was just lifting toast to her mouth when they heard a knock on the door. Emmie’s heart flew into her mouth. It could not be later than quarter past nine! Her wide eyes met Pinky’s across the table. Surely Viscount Faris would not be so early?

“Miss Ballentine?” It was Florrie at the door.

“Come in,” she answered. They heard the maid’s quick step in the hallway.

“You’ve got a visitor.” Emmie’s racing heart calmed a little when she saw Florrie’s sour expression. There was no excitement there today. Perhaps it was not him?

“Who is it, Florrie?”

“It’s that Mr. Stockton,” the maid sniffed. “And ’e looks a right state! Not fit to be seen in decent company.”

Humphrey? Emmie dragged back her chair at once. Stolid, respectable Humphrey looking “a right state”? This did not sound good. Immediately, Emmie’s thoughts turned to the business. Oh Lord, things must be in bad repair. “No, do not let this interrupt your breakfast,” she said quickly as Pinky set down her spoon. She did not want Pinky troubled with such matters until it was strictly necessary.

“I will see him downstairs in the reception room if it is available?” she said, addressing the question to Florrie.

Florrie nodded. “Oh yes, it’s quite free this morning.”

“Thank you. You stay and finish your egg, Hannah,” she said firmly as Pinky’s expression wavered.

She made her way downstairs, following closely behind Florrie, who kept up a stream of chatter about how shocked and disapproving Mrs. Chalfont would be if she could see the state of their gentleman caller. Emmie’s thoughts were far too disordered for consideration of her landlady to ruffle her.

“Yes, thank you, Florrie,” she said in dismissal as soon as she reached the door to the reception room. Florrie flounced away and Emmie let herself into the room, closing the door behind her.

“Humphrey, this is unexpected…” she began before she had even turned, then broke off abruptly when she did. “Humphrey!” she exclaimed weakly. “My dear, whatever is wrong?” While not as disheveled as Florrie’s words had led her to expect, he did not look well at all.

Though his sober gray suit was tidy as ever, his eyes were red-rimmed and his usually immaculate hair practically standing on end. He threw up a hand when she started toward him.

“No, do not attempt to…to comfort me, Emmie,” he said in a choked voice. “You must allow me some room in which to unburden myself . Please .”

She stilled, taking in his agitation. “Very well,” she conceded carefully. “I will take a seat here,” she said, motioning to a wing-backed seat at some distance from the fireplace where he stood, practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.

“Something dreadful has happened,” he started and then swallowed, as though past a lump in his throat. “I hardly know how to tell you, in truth, it is so very—” He bowed his head, then turned abruptly to brace his shaking hands against the mantel. “I need a minute,” he gritted out, flinging back his head.

When nothing was forthcoming over the loud tick of the carriage clock, Emmie cleared her throat. “Humphrey,” she said gently, “is it the business?” His shoulders tensed. “I know things have been—”

“It’s gone under!” he burst out, removing one hand from the mantel to cram a fist into his mouth.

“Gone under?” she repeated blankly.

“Hit the wall, smashed, gone bust,” he said, turning to face her with a sob. “Ballentine’s Trading Company is no more. It has collapsed in on itself.”

Collapsed? Emmie raised a hand to cover her mouth. This was even worse than she had feared.

Humphrey flung himself into the chair opposite her, driving his fingers into his hair. No wonder it was standing on end, she thought distractedly.

“So, we must cease trading with immediate effect?” she asked quite horrified. “Will there be—”

He jerked upright. “Cease trading? That is the least of our worries!” he said with a bitter laugh.

“The least of our worries?” Emmie was confused. Surely the loss of the business was tragedy enough. “How can that be?”

His color drained, leaving him pale as milk. “Not only has the company folded,” he uttered hoarsely, “but there is also a mountain of debt to make reparation for.”

Debt? Emmie’s stomach sank. Oh no . “Debt?” she whispered. “How much debt?”

“I hardly know by this point,” he admitted wretchedly. “At first, we borrowed to make up the shortfall, and then I—I took some risks— Your father, he always speculated, and I thought—” he groaned and buried his face in his hands.

She waited, while a cold feeling crept up her spine. Risks? Steady Humphrey took some risks? He must have been desperate indeed. “I cannot pretend this is not a severe blow,” she said numbly when he did not speak for another full minute. “But we—we must—find a way forward together.”

Oh heavens, she thought suddenly, what of their employees? Mr. Hardiman had worked for the firm for over thirty years! Then there was old Mr. Rigby, and at least five others. Were they to be out of a job without any severance package to ease their way?

Her head span. She needed to say something, anything . Humphrey looked in a flat despair. He was frightening her a little. “Perhaps, if we combined our household expenses then we could make some saving—” she started desperately.

He sprang from his chair and started pacing in front of the fireplace. “No, you do not understand.”

“I realize that bankruptcy is hardly the best start to married life but—”

“There can no question of our combining households or of marriage,” he said flatly. “You see, not only have I ruined your family business, but I have been on the verge of ruining you for years as well.”

“Ruining me ?”

He nodded. “Oh God, I can hardly tell you this. You see, I cannot marry you, Emmie. That—all that must be at an end.” He swept an arm in a most un-Humphrey-like gesture.

Emmie was speechless. She regarded him with some concern. “Won’t you take a seat, Humphrey?” she asked gently. “You are clearly under some strain and—”

“I cannot marry you, Emmie,” he repeated with emphasis. “Clara will not let me.”

“Clara?” Emmie echoed in bewilderment. She had never heard him mention a Clara before. “Who, pray, is Clara?

Humphrey gulped. “Clara is my wife,” he said hoarsely.

“ Your wife? ” Emmie repeated dumbly, not quite believing her ears. “You—but when—?”

“My wife of twelve years,” he confessed shakily, jerking at his necktie as though to give himself room to breathe.

“ Twelve years ,” Emmie cried. “But we have only been engaged for ten!”

“I know.” He winced. “My marriage predates our engagement.”

Emmie blinked up at him. “Forgive me, I do not understand,” she said, groping for the arm of her chair and clutching it.

“I was married to Clara at nineteen. We had already been married for two years when I met you.”

Emmie heard a rushing in her ears and wondered for a moment if she might actually faint. “I don’t—but how— why ? Why would you do this to me, Humphrey?” she asked in horrified wonder. “Why in heaven’s name would you propose marriage to me when you were not in the position to do so?”

He dropped into a chair. “God, I don’t know,” he moaned, scrubbing his eyes with his palms. “I was so flattered when your father started inviting me to dine at your big house in Porchester Square. I—I was dazzled. I hoped for promotion, and I wanted to ingratiate myself.” He threw her a desperate look. “Can’t you try to understand, Emmie? Your father was such a force of nature. When he suggested marriage to you, I was too intimidated to object.”

“Intimidated?” she repeated . “Intimidated or ambitious?”

He flushed hotly. “Both, I suppose,” he admitted wretchedly. Then after a pause said fervently, “How you must hate me now!”

“Hate?” she said shakily. “In truth, I feel too numb for so strong an emotion.” Humphrey’s eyes dropped from hers. Silence reigned for a minute or two until Emmie heard herself ask inconsequentially, “How is it you arrived in Bath so early?” It was surely too early for the stagecoach to have arrived from London.

“I arrived last night,” he answered. “Stayed in a hotel nearby. I set out a dozen times to see you but could not face the interview until this morning.”

“Does Clara know about me?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject. He nodded. “Always? Has she always known?”

He gulped. “Yes.”

“And yet she—?”

“Please try to understand, Emmie,” he appealed to her. “We wanted to get out of her mother’s house. To get a little place of our own. She wasn’t happy about the deception but—”

“Ten years you let me wait for you,” she interrupted. “ Ten whole years! ”

“The time just never seemed right. You see, we needed to save a little nest egg,” he gabbled, “and then the baby came—”

“Get out, Humphrey!”

He rose shakily to his feet. “I realize that at this moment you must—”

“Please just leave !”

Resolutely, Emmie covered her ears with her hands and closed her eyes tight shut. She huddled down in the chair and stayed like that for as long as she dared. She wished she could sit there all day. She wished she could stop time for another ten years or no—turn it back. Turn it back ten years and then tell Humphrey Stockton to go to hell with his offer for her hand.

She was not sure how long she sat there, willfully unseeing and unhearing of the world. It must have been a couple of minutes at least. Before opening them, she told herself she would see everything quite differently now. She was an older and more jaded woman.

She was a woman who had been jilted at the altar. Nay, not quite that. A woman, then, who had been snared by a bigamist! But even that was not quite true. Humphrey was not a bigamist for his Clara had not let him become one. What was she, then, she wondered, aside from bankrupt?

As her blurred vision swam back in view, she found, to her astonishment, that the chair opposite her was still occupied. It was no longer Humphrey who sat there, looking distressed and pale. Instead, it was Jeremy Vance, who looked as beautiful and wicked as ever, clad immaculately in a pale gray lounging suit. “Good morning, Emmeline,” he said.

“Not for me,” she replied hollowly.

He nodded. “You have suffered a nasty shock,” he said. “Two shocks, in fact. But life goes on all the same.”

She sat up straighter in her seat. He knew! But how? She cast a quick look at the door and found it open, considerably more than a crack. “You heard all that?” she croaked.

“I did,” he agreed conversationally. “The maid Florence allowed me to sit just outside to await you but alas, the door to this room does not shut all the way. The catch must be broken.”

She regarded him for a moment quite speechless. How long had he sat there looking at her hunched over with her eyes squeezed shut? She almost shuddered at the spectacle she must have made of herself. Besides this debacle even her ignominious time as a debutante paled into insignificance. “A man with nice manners would not have sat there listening!” she pointed out at last with dignity.

His smile grew. “Ah, but I am not a nice man, as well you know.”

Hot color crept into her cheeks. “You must have turned up unforgivably early for our walk!”

He nodded. “Oh, I did. I did not feel sure of you, you see. I do now though.”

She did not quite care for the glint in his eye. “What do you mean, you did not feel sure of me?”

“I could not feel easy in my mind. That you would corroborate my blamelessness in our past dealings, I mean. So, I came early to persuade you that I had turned over a new leaf.”

“Oh.” She eyed him curiously. “And why is it you now feel sure I will cooperate?”

“Because, my dear Ballentine, I now have the means to bargain with you.”

Emmie watched him with some horrified fascination. It was like ten years had not even passed since she had last seen him. She felt like a mouse frozen in front of a snake. It had all the qualities of a bad dream.

Seeing he was still closely watching her, she roused herself. “Means?” she repeated with a frown. She could not even pretend to understand him.

“Yes, for you are in a pretty pickle and so am I. Let us consider for a moment if we cannot come to one another’s aid.”

She really was lost by this point. Lifting a hand to her brow, she asked helplessly, “How is it you are in a pickle, my lord?”

“I am recently divorced,” he reminded her. “My respectability is tarnished. My social standing, on shaky ground. Even my nine-year-old son suspects my past is not as honorable as it should have been.” He sighed, and for some reason this made her narrow her eyes.

“I hardly think your pickle, I mean, predicament, compares to mine.”

“Well, it is all a matter of perspective, is it not? You did not actually make it down the aisle.”

“No, and if I had, it would have been a criminal offence!” she said with spirit.

“Let us be grateful, then, that dear Clara prevented it.”

Emmie stiffened. He really had heard everything. “At least you have not been saddled with horrendous debt,” she said bitterly.

“Actually, Amanda frequently incurred considerable gambling debts, which I settled in a quiet and discreet fashion. I could do the same with yours, given the right enticement.”

Emmie gasped. “What on earth?” She stared at him. His blue gaze was steady. “We—we do not even know the sums involved!” she pointed out. “In any case, you are not in earnest.”

“I assure you that I am.”

“Why on earth would you?” she spluttered.

“A man does, for his wife.”

She blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “Then the enticement you speak of…?”

“Marriage, my dear Emmeline,” he said urbanely. “You and me. How about it?”