Chapter 13

Ernest Blakemore stared down into the fire in the hearth, his grip around the head of his cane tightening until his knuckles ached. Where is that girl? He turned to glance over his shoulder, but still there was no sign of Celeste. What was delaying her?

He needed to speak with her, urgently. It seemed that every time his nephew encountered that Hayesworth girl, he became increasingly smitten with her. The signs were all there, and it was dismaying, for Ernest had not any of them until now. Until Gemma Hayesworth.

He'd watched the boy flirt his way through a ball, through numbers of parties and dinners and operas. But never had he seen him take to a girl quite the way he took to this young woman fresh from the countryside. Everything about her wanted. Her figure. Her manners. Her polish. Her wealth, most of all.

Ernest ground his teeth. He would not stand by and watch it. Watch his fool brother's son marry someone who did not bring wealth of her own into the marriage.

He would make sure that the Blakemore name and fortune be united with another equally formidable lineage. And Gemma Hayesworth's family had been ruined—her father had squandered everything away, and creditors had picked him clean.

He had left his wife and daughter with nothing. And now, that daughter designed to wile her way into Dalton's heart.

The sound of the door clicking shut brought Ernest back to the present, and he turned to see Celeste standing there, her eyes wide, face pale, as she regarded him curiously. "Is something amiss, Uncle?"

He hurried over, pulled open the door, looked about the hall outside, and then closed the door again. Turning to her, he guided her to the other end of the room in front of the fireplace. "I did not send you off to finishing school for nothing," he hissed. "You must heighten your affections for Lord Blakemore. Charm him. You are hardly plain. And your wiles are at your disposal. Yet—yet each time he sees her, he grows more besotted with Miss Hayesworth."

Celeste shrank back, her face paling even more. "Uncle—"

He grasped her by the arm, sighing heavily. "He is on the precipice, don't you see? You must lead him to the edge, enthrall him so that he cannot refuse…and when you've got him in your grasp, I shall declare his behaviour an affront to your reputation. That he must marry you if he means to remain respectable."

"Uncle—you don't mean—you don't mean that we are to—"

"To snare him. If we do not, we are lost, my dear niece."

"Lost," Celeste breathed.

"Yes. All of this. He will tire of us, and turn us out, but only as long as he does not attach himself to you. Then you will not lose all your pretty dresses, your fine carriages."

Celeste hummed softly, twining a golden curl around her finger. "He wouldn't do such a thing to us, would he? We are his family."

"Hardly. He knows that his father and I never got along. And he holds it against me, I am certain."

"Surely not," Celeste cried.

"It is so."

"Oh, Uncle—"

"You must, as soon as you can."

"Uncle—"

"Celeste? Ernest?" Adelaide's voice was soft, full of bewilderment. Almost slurring.

Ernest jumped, casting his niece a frantic look. Had his sister-in-law heard everything? How long had she been in here?

He surveyed her, from her white face to her glassy eyes. It would seem she'd just dosed herself again with the tonic. The tonic Ernest had only just managed to bribe the physician into giving her. But everyone, Ernest knew, could be bought. It just depended on learning their price.

Adelaide pressed a hand to her face, blinking rapidly. "What—what are you doing in here?" she stammered.

Ernest swore inwardly, nearly grimacing. Perhaps he would be required to have her served a hearty spoonful of the tonic in her mulled wine. It would render her catatonic within the hour. His dear brother had sought that same tonic before his own untimely death. And once again, it would prove mercifully rewarding. The poor woman was beside herself with grief, of course. And Ernest's tonic was a wondrous relief for her sleepless nights, or the ones wracked by night terrors.

The tonic assuaged her torment. Was that not a boon?

"Dear Lord, you must get some rest," he cried, hastening towards her and escorting her from the room. "Hastings!" he barked out, and Adelaide's maid hastened down the hall.

"Forgive me, my lord. She must have slipped from her room."

"Did I not tell you to keep a close watch on her as she slept? She is prone to night terrors, as you know," Ernest said severely.

The young woman flinched. "But of course, my Lord. Forgive me, my Lord. ‘It will not happen again."

"I should hope not!" Ernest straightened his coat, watching as the maid guided Adelaide up hall towards the stairs.

"When should I attempt to…ah…" Celeste's voice shook.

"Tomorrow. We must not waste any time. Now, give me a kiss and go on to bed."

"Yes, Uncle." Celeste darted over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and hastened out of the small, back parlor. It was close to the door leading to the garden, and it did not see frequent use. But it proved a perfect place to speak with his niece in private—at least until tonight. But Adelaide walked as if she were half-asleep. The maid must have given her some of the tonic again. They would have to increase the dosage, as Adelaide's tolerance to it must have risen.

He sank into the chair in front of the blazing fire, staring into the dancing flames. If it came to it, he would dispatch his sister-in-law, and nobody would suspect it. She'd been wilting away since his brother passed.

Everyone would believe that her health had at last slipped away. And it wouldn't be too far-fetched.

Ernest knew one thing for certain. He did not need Adelaide encouraging Dalton's interest in Gemma. So, it would not be the worst thing if she should pass quietly and painlessly.

***

Dalton lay on his bed, staring up at the canopy hanging above his bed. He slowly closed his eyes, his stomach churning. The glass of brandy he'd poured earlier sat, untouched, on his bedside table. He didn't want it, even though he'd asked for it. Instead, he lay, his mind racing to the night of the opera, the alarming feelings Gemma stirred in him, like a swarm of writhing snakes in his belly. He couldn't think of another way to describe it. It was unnerving, made him feel out of control. His head spun, his thoughts straying beyond his grasp. His mind continuously returned to Gemma, the memory of her smile, her laugh. The way her eyes sparkled up into his.

He rested his arm across his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He scarcely knew the girl. But oh heavens, he wanted to. He wanted to more than anything he'd wanted before. He felt himself coming to life, like the garden after a long winter. Something in him ached for her. Ached in a way that would not be soothed, not by liquor or the charms of a courtesan. Not by the satisfying weariness after a particularly long walk. He stood and paced across the room, before pausing with a sigh. He washed his face, splashing the water over his hot skin. At last he straightened, grasping the towel hanging nearby, and patted his face dry. Tossing the towel away, he stared at himself in the mirror.

" You could be this season's William Herschel. " Her voice echoed through his head. He truly yearned to be. Or at least, he used to. Before Father's passing, he'd enjoyed a great many ambitions, he had cared. He had once striven to be the best fencer, the best scholar at Oxford. The best boxer. And now here he was, wasting away his health, his leisure, his mind.

Wasting himself on women he'd never remember. Closing his eyes, he pictured Gemma in his mind, her large hazel eyes, lips parted as she gazed over at him at the opera, his pulse leaping beneath her gaze. Once, years ago, as a mere boy, he had been entranced in a similar manner. It had been brief, perfunctory. A boyish fancy. But it had passed.

Now, leaning over his bed, he wondered if this would pass. Deep down, something told him it wouldn't, at least not without effort.