Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

O n the way to Brownstone Hall, Emily shifted to better view the passing scenery through the coach window and take her mind off the looming social engagement. The old rusty springs of their conveyance groaned, and she tugged on the bodice of her gown to keep her corset from pinching her side.

The night she'd dreaded had arrived too quickly. She'd be expected to mingle with Sylvanwood's elites, who'd give her the cut direct if they knew the truth of her birth. After hours of preparing, primping, and having her breathing constrained by a corset, she was stuffed into a gown that almost weighed as much as she, with superfluous layers of embroidered lace. Mama flashed her a disapproving glare and pursed her lips because Emily had refused the elaborate feathers she'd wanted to add to her coiffure.

"Stop fidgeting." Mama sighed. "You look lovely."

"I'm not used to this cut." She adjusted the fabric of her bodice.

"It's fine." Mama's eyes dropped to Emily's chest. "The square cut is in fashion."

Samuel glanced her way and shrugged. "Phoebe will probably wear a dress cut much lower?—"

Papa shook his head, and Samuel quieted.

Phoebe probably would choose a lower-cut bodice, but that didn't make Emily feel better. A reputation defined a woman and determined her opportunities. If one were extraordinarily rich, then society might make an exception to their risqué dress or behavior. The Thompson family did not struggle for funds, but they were not swimming-in-lard wealthy.

Tonight would be Emily's first time sitting in the same room with Lady Dorsham since Phoebe had informed her mama that Emily was adopted. Had Phoebe convinced her mama to hold Emily's secret, or would the gossip be too juicy to Lady Dorsham to hold inside? Would the dinner guests outright shun the honoree, or would they merely speak about her behind her back? If it was the latter, she'd be the last to know. Rumors were never shared with the object of said gossip.

Mama picked a loose thread from Papa's jacket.

"Stop fussing, dear." But Papa grinned, obviously not minding her attention.

They'd sacrificed so much to improve their children's lot in life. To take in someone else's unwanted babies, Mama had uprooted from friends and family so that no one would know Emily and Christian were illegitimate. Papa had married her, knowing full well that Emily and Christian weren't hers from her first marriage.

Emily remembered the snide remarks of her old neighbors as a young child. The pain of being snubbed by the other children, and the wide berth people gave her family as they passed, as though being baseborn were contagious.

If Phoebe didn't keep her word, if the knowledge of Emily's birth leaked out, it wouldn't only be Emily who suffered the consequences. Papa could lose the parsonage for not being forthright with his congregation. Samuel could lose his apprenticeship, and Christian could learn he was adopted and suffer the consequences the same as Emily herself would.

She must keep the truth from getting out.

The air inside the carriage had warmed. Mama fanned herself. "I do hope it's a lovely evening. I found Lord Warren to be a delightful fellow."

In Mama's opinion, Lord Warren, with his title and connections, would make Emily an excellent match, but Emily could never set foot in London. It would be best for her to settle in the country—and for Mr. Mathis. Why couldn't her heart skip in Mr. Mathis's company the way it did around Jacob?

Funny how quickly she'd shifted from thinking of her childhood friend by his first name.

And how, just as quickly, Lord Warren had become Jacob in her thoughts.

Brownstone Hall's gates were swung wide, so different from the way they usually appeared, with the intimidating wrought-iron spikes locked tightly. Mama and she often hitched the horses to the gate and trekked the long drive to leave a food basket.

Mama patted Samuel on the knee. "Look at how much his lordship has already improved the property."

Samuel pulled back the curtain with his index finger. "Indeed. It shall bring more enthusiasm to Sylvanwood. Lord Warren's arrival is a blessing to our town."

Truly? A blessing? Why, then, did she feel the need to pray for protection?

The tall grass and overgrown weeds had been replaced by a manicured lawn, the broken shutters removed. The ivy vines that had overrun the house had been trimmed back, and the dilapidated columns flanking the front steps repainted.

The Dorshams' town coach moved from the door toward the stable, which meant Phoebe was in attendance, and the Geyers' and Hamsteads' gigs were already parked. Even the magistrate, Mr. Fiske, and his wife would dine with them in her honor.

Would Lady Dorsham give her the cut direct? No, of course not. Emily waved the thought away. Lady Dorsham would never blatantly disrespect the vicar. She'd merely nod and say, Good evening, Miss Thompson , and walk past.

Their coachman drew the horses to a stop in front of the entrance. A footman in brown-toned livery, which complemented the stonework and hall's name, opened the carriage door. The scent of lilacs laced the evening air and filled Emily's lungs as she alighted. She shook out her hands to combat the nervous tingling in her limbs and focused on the front steps instead of the imposing home.

A fresh coat of varnish glossed the main entrance, and the elderly butler, Mr. Maslow, who bellowed the hymns at church, pushed open the doors as they ascended the front steps. Like the footman, he was dressed in brown livery. If Phoebe were beside her, she would comment on how Lord Petersham, the famous dandy from the gossip papers, had made brown all the rage in London.

Mama handed the butler their card, and Maslow belted out their names so loudly that she imagined St. Peter wincing at the pearly gates.

So much for a discreet entrance.

Emily slid in behind Samuel, but Mama looped her arm through Emily's and drew her forward in line with the rest of the family.

The white marble floors with black diamond accents gleamed. The ornate Corinthian columns were freshly whitewashed, the faint odor of oil solvent lingering. Inlaid, gold-leafed trim shone, competing with the sparkling triple-tiered chandeliers.

Guests clustered in groups in the large open parlor as footmen carried hors d'oeuvres on silver platters. Sylvanwood's most prestigious residents were in attendance at the dinner party—the Dorshams, the magistrate and his family, and Sir Hamilton, a local knighted for his service for the king—but their provincial ways probably seemed lacking compared to the elite members of the ton among which Jacob would normally mingle. Twenty or so townspeople engaged in conversation, but a couple glanced her way, one being Mr. Mathis, who nodded to the magistrate and headed in their direction.

Mama and Papa exchanged comments about the change to the manor, but Emily issued Samuel a sidelong glance to state, stick together. He nodded and Emily relaxed.

"Good evening, Miss Thompson." Mr. Mathis touched her elbow.

Had he been waiting for her to arrive?

His gaze flicked to her gown and then to her father. "I'm surprised by your choice of gown."

Emily restrained her hands from pulling up the tulle tucker hiding her bosom. "We were just commenting on the changes to Brownstone Hall."

"Indeed." Mr. Mathis pivoted to examine the room. "I was here as a child when the hall was in its splendor. My father was Lord Athol's estate manager until my uncle passed and my family inherited his lands." One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Much has changed since then."

A boisterous laugh erupted across the foyer. Jacob's infectious warmth singled him out of the crowd.

Emily's heart hitched, spreading nervous tingles through her system. She and her family crossed the foyer and descended the few steps into the parlor.

While conversing with Phoebe and Lady Dorsham, Jacob glanced in her direction and flashed a confident smile. He wore an elegant evening jacket of dark-blue kerseymere with a brilliant white waistcoat and dark trousers, every bit the high-born society leader and son of a duke. He excused himself and strode in her direction, maneuvering around guests with a panther-like stride.

He bowed and introduced himself to Papa. "Pleased to finally meet you, Reverend. Mrs. Thompson, delighted to see you again." He nodded to Samuel. "Same to you, Mr. Thompson, Mr. Mathis." Jacob looked at Emily, and his grin broadened. "And our guest of honor." He scooped Emily's gloved hand and bowed over it, keeping hold a tad longer than customary and drawing heat to her cheeks. "Welcome, Miss Thompson. You look radiant this evening."

His gaze locked on hers, and Emily, unaccustomed to such attention, murmured her thanks and curtsied.

He turned his full attention to Mama, bowing over her hand. "Mrs. Thompson, may I say how charming you look in that color of green?"

Mama blushed and fluttered her fan.

His brows drew together. "I know the color has a specific name, but it's eluding me."

Her family shifted to regard Emily.

She shrank under the scrutiny but mumbled, "That shade of green is called celadon."

"Quite right, I was going to say sea-green, but celadon sounds better." Jacob's eyes glinted with sarcasm.

The man enjoyed teasing her.

Samuel beamed, his easygoing smile expanding his freckles. "Emily is a brilliant artist."

"Indeed," Mama said. "You must come again to visit, and she shall show you her work. It is exceedingly good. She has plans to send a portfolio to the Royal Academy."

Emily inwardly sighed. Those had been her plans until she learned her birth mother's identity.

"Really." Jacob's gaze settled upon her. "A marksman and an artist." Funny how he pretended this was new information. "What other impressive skills do you hold, Miss Thompson?"

Why did her stomach somersault whenever he peered at her like that? "I believe everything has been brought to light, my lord."

Samuel wouldn't let the comment stand. "But you forgot to mention how you seat a horse well and have a proclivity with children, especially our youngest brother."

Something flashed in Jacob's eyes, but it was too fleeting to register. He lifted a brow, and the timber of his voice vibrated the fine hairs on her skin. "A talented woman, indeed."

"Her true gift to her future husband will be in how well she manages a household." Mr. Mathis stepped closer to her side. His words seemed like a compliment, but his reproving tone hinted that it was a slight against her.

Papa gazed about the room. "Brownstone Hall looks splendid. It's astounding what you've done with the place in such a short time."

"The work has progressed quite well, indeed." Jacob leaned into the family's circle and whispered, "As long as you stay within these three rooms." He drew a triangle in the air with his finger, implying the foyer, parlor, and what she assumed must be the dining room, but she couldn't be certain for the doors were closed. "I fear what people may say if they stray beyond this general area."

"Do not fret. We won't be fixing our eyes on what is seen, but instead on what is unseen." Papa inclined his head in Lady Athol's direction, who was speaking to Lady Dorsham near the entrance of the dining room, and a spark of approval lit his eyes. "It's the heart changes for which we extend our gratitude."

"I admit…" Jacob glanced at his aunt. "I've stretched her beyond what she finds comfortable, but Aunt Louisa has handled the renovations and party planning well."

"I hope you were able to gather the help you needed?"

Jacob dipped his head. "Indeed. Thanks to Mrs. Thompson's recommendations, workers lined up outside my door. I am grateful for your assistance."

"You're very welcome." Mama's gaze shifted over Jacob's shoulder where Lady Athol disengaged from the Dorshams to speak with the butler. "Ah, here comes Lady Dorsham and Phoebe, how lovely." Mama smiled to greet them.

Emily stiffened.

Mr. Mathis straightened and smoothed his jacket.

While the others were distracted by Lady Dorsham's approach, Jacob whispered in Emily's ear, "Valkyries also seat a horse well."

A slight gasp escaped her lips, setting his eyes twinkling.

And… Was that a wink? Did the man have the audacity to wink at her in public?

He spun and greeted Phoebe and her mother. "I believe you all are acquainted with each other?"

Lady Dorsham curtsied to the Thompsons and Jacob. "Indeed, my daughter and Miss Thompson shared the same schoolroom. Allowing Miss Thompson access to Phoebe's governess was the least I could do for the good vicar's family for overseeing our small parish."

The ostrich feathers in Phoebe's coiffure shook as she flashed Emily an isn't-he-handsome look before practically swooning.

Beside her, Mr. Mathis tensed.

If Mr. Mathis's inclination toward modesty was making him uncomfortable around Phoebe's daring fashion, he showed no disapproval and greeted her with an eager smile. "Phoebe…er, Miss Dorsham." His voice cracked. "Your hair looks…rather nice this evening."

"Quite." Jacob arched a brow. "I haven't seen the like of such a hairstyle in London. At least, not yet."

Was that another trace of sarcasm in his voice? He showed no sign of mockery on his face.

Her friend giggled and fluttered her fan with delight.

"Phoebe is making her debut this Season, my lord," Lady Dorsham told Jacob. "I do hope you'll be returning to London before the end of the Season."

"It depends upon the renovations." Jacob graced Phoebe with one of his captivating smiles. "I'm certain Miss Dorsham will be the Season's catch."

Phoebe's fanning doubled its rhythm.

A servant signaled to Jacob.

"The meal is ready. It is time for us to be seated." He nodded to the footmen standing in front of the dining room, and they swung the doors open in a grand gesture. A long mahogany banquet table that could easily seat twenty people filled the spacious area. Large fruit-and-flower arrangements in silver bowls graced the center, alternating with six-piece candelabras.

Jacob maneuvered through the crowd and offered Lady Athol a hold on his arm.

When Lady Athol's gaze fell upon Emily, Emily waved as she did whenever she left treats at the door.

A small smile curved Lady Athol's lips. Even though she clenched Jacob's arm with her gloved hands, she exuded elegance and grace, returning the wave with a slight raising of her hand.

Jacob escorted Lady Athol into the dining room, and the rest of the guests followed.

Samuel held his arm out for Phoebe, but she hesitated, likely hoping to acquire a higher-ranking escort. When no others rushed forward, she permitted Samuel to lead her.

Mr. Mathis took Emily's hand and placed it in the crook of his arm as she'd expected.

The guests seated themselves in typical fashion, according to rank and alternating male and female. Lady Dorsham and Phoebe settled near Jacob at the head of the table. The Thompson family shuffled to the lower-ranking middle, except Papa, who had been asked to take the gentleman's place of honor next to Lady Athol. Emily could only reason it was due to her father's age or being the town's reverend, for there were higher-ranking men in the room.

After everyone was seated, Jacob held up his glass.

The room's noise dwindled, and she shifted to better view their host.

Before he spoke, his gaze settled on Emily. He frowned. "This will not do."

A footman pulled out his chair, and their host strode the length of the table.

To Emily's horror, he stopped behind her. "My guest of honor must be seated in a place of honor."

"It's quite all right…"

But a footman pulled out her chair, and Jacob tugged on her hand.

Mortified into compliance, she allowed him to guide her. Her dread doubled when she realized there wasn't an open seat. Where would Jacob settle her? Would a footman bring another chair?

Jacob waved his hand. "Please, everyone on the right side of the table, shift over one seat so we can make room for Miss Thompson. Her quick thinking saved me from certain death at the hands of highwaymen."

Lady Dorsham stammered, "But she's…she's…"

Emily inched closer to the butler pouring wine into glasses. One bump of her hip would create enough of a distraction to drown out Lady Dorsham's next words. But she dared not.

Lady Dorsham's voice trailed off, but Emily knew the direction of her thoughts. She's of questionable birth, base-born, a by-blow .

J acob's glare cut off Lady Dorsham mid-sentence. He had no idea what she'd meant to say, but her flared nostrils and pinched expression announced it would not have been complimentary to Miss Thompson.

Silence as thick as London's fog hung over the room.

"The vicar's daughter." Lady Dorsham shifted one chair.

The gall of this social-climbing mother astounded him. That she'd attempt to humiliate Miss Thompson, who once shared her daughter's schoolroom, to obtain a better seat for herself.

He drew Emily closer to his side, away from the woman's vile tongue, hoping to infuse her with some of his strength. She appeared so delicate—a beautiful flower among a roomful of weeds. But he'd witnessed her strength by the creek.

Jacob pulled out Emily's chair himself. "Please be seated."

She sat but kept her eyes on the empty plate before her.

He raised his glass again. "A toast to the lovely woman beside me, Miss Thompson. I owe her my life and a debt of gratitude. May your aim always be sure and your arrows quick, and may I never find myself unfortunate enough to become your target."

Guests chuckled at his quip and clinked their glasses.

Peter Mathis remained straight-faced. Perhaps the man needs to think he had a little competition so he'd not presume Emily was his.

Emily flushed a becoming shade of pink.

Jacob resumed his seat at the head of the table as footmen carried in large trays and placed them on the sideboard.

At a nod from Jacob, the vicar rose and blessed the food. Turtle soup and an assortment of breads and cheeses were served.

His aunt's nerves seemed to settle as the magistrate and his wife engaged her in conversation. She was handling herself famously. The cornered animal look in her eyes lifted, probably due to the patient and good-natured vicar nearby. Mr. Thompson's presence kept wagging tongues in check, and his lively chatter must have helped.

Jacob raised his glass and saluted his aunt's efforts.

Beside him, Emily remained quiet, leaving him no choice but to endure Miss Dorsham on his left as she raved over the soup, dominating his attention. She leaned toward him until the bodice of her gown brushed his sleeve.

He tucked his hand in his lap, imagining the poor chaperone, who would be busy with her flirtatious charge during the young lady's coming out this spring.

Miss Dorsham was a pretty chit with soft blond curls and a ripe figure, much like the women who fought for Jacob's attention in London. But he'd witnessed the conniving, deceptive tactics they used and to what ends they would go to climb the social ladder. She would be an easy conquest if he were a cad who took advantage of innocents. Disrupting her advances might be amusing.

When her satin slipper brushed his leg, he turned to Emily. "Miss Thompson."

She froze and lowered her spoon to her soup, her gaze sliding his direction.

"What types of paintings do you typically create?"

"Portraits, mostly." One shoulder issued a dainty shrug. "Some landscapes for my own enjoyment." She turned back to her soup as if to end the conversation, but he would have none of it.

"Ah, if the landscapes are for your pleasure, then the portraits must be for commissions?"

Her jaw tensed. "Indeed."

"To save for membership dues to The Royal Academy?"

Miss Dorsham shifted in her seat and cleared her throat as if to interject.

Jacob ignored her. Painting his portrait would be the perfect excuse to get to know Christian's family and to see his son. "I would love to commission you for a painting. I was thinking of a full-length portrait of myself to hang in the hall and remind my older brother of his love for his youngest sibling." He glanced from Miss Dorsham to Emily and added in a conspiring tone, "Or at the very least, irritate him every time he walks in the front door."

"Oh, Emily." Miss Dorsham leaned across the table and tapped it above Emily's place setting. A bobbing ostrich feather in her coiffure brushed his temple as he looked away from the scandalous view of skin. "An opportunity to paint his lordship, and a full-length portrait. How generous." Sitting back, Miss Dorsham touched her throat and peered at him over her shoulder. "You are too kind, my lord."

Jacob cringed at Miss Dorsham's tone, insinuating that Emily needed the money.

"Emily is splendid with a paint brush. You'll be amazed." Miss Dorsham pouted. "I insist on tagging along and entertaining both of you while you work. It shall be splendid. I can read or sing, or we could merely chat." Her focus shifted to him. "I've been dying to know more about London and hoped you'd share all the ins and outs."

"I'm afraid I'm already scheduled to paint the magistrate's son." Emily shook her head.

"Pish posh. I will speak with them. They should wait until fall, anyway." Miss Dorsham faced him and lowered her voice. "Young Fredrick had an awkward growth spurt. The poor chap wouldn't want his gangly body commemorated for all time."

Emily's eyebrows drew together, watching Miss Dorsham.

Jacob hid his smile behind his glass and sipped. "Then Miss Thompson is willing?"

"Of course, Emily agrees." Miss Dorsham's enthusiasm oozed thicker than the dinner's sauces. "We're inseparable"—her face reddened suddenly—"at least until recently, with all the preparations for my Season, but I have missed her company."

Emily leveled Miss Dorsham with a glare before shaking her head at him. "I do not have a proper studio in which to paint a full-length portrait."

"Oh, but certainly, his lordship wants his portrait done here." Miss Dorsham glanced at him for affirmation.

The Thompsons' home would be best, but it would be rude to insist upon her painting him at the parsonage, so he shrugged.

Emily rested her fork at the top of her plate and said in a prim voice, "I do not have a chaperone, for Mrs. Hayes is needed at home."

Jacob smothered his grin at the female battle of wills—Miss Dorsham who seemed determined to win his affections and Emily…why would Emily not want to paint his portrait? His smile withered. It didn't bode well for him if it was due to his reputation. All the more reason to be in her company, so he could win over her approval and learn more about the family that raised Christian.

"Another reason for me to accompany you. Miss Neves can serve as a chaperone for both of us. Besides, Lady Athol shall be here. Won't she?"

Seeing Aunt Louisa conversing with Mrs. Thompson swelled Jacob's heart with pride. The night was faring remarkably well. "Indeed. I believe some female company might be just the thing."

Emily's face paled. She whispered in a tight voice, "Phoebe, your mother shall not approve."

"Mama," Miss Dorsham called across the table.

Jacob stiffened at the woman's bold disregard of etiquette.

Her mother did the same. "Darling, lower your voice. It is not polite to beckon across the table."

"His lordship has asked Emily to paint his portrait, and you know how tedious those sittings can be. I offered my services to entertain them. We are merely looking for your consent."

Her mother glanced around at the luxury surrounding her, the centerpieces and the team of footmen. Her regard seemed to settle on the elegant cut of Jacob's coat and the sapphire winking at her in his neckcloth. He could almost hear the marriage banns being announced in her head. "Well, of course, my dear, as long as you bring Miss Neves, I think it's a lovely idea."

"Splendid." Miss Dorsham beamed.

"Splendid," Jacob echoed and turned to Emily.

Emily glared at what Jacob deemed her fickle friend, and her head gave the tiniest shake.

"What do you say, Miss Thompson?" Jacob asked. Candlelight shimmered in the reflection of her amber eyes, causing them to glow. Drawn into their depths, he wouldn't accept her refusal. "Shall I add the price to my brother's bill?"

Miss Dorsham honed her gaze on Emily. "Your commission could go toward Christian's first semester at Eton."

She visibly wavered.

It was the perfect way for him to indirectly pay for Christian's schooling and learn more about him and his family. He must convince her. "It will provide me with a reason to brag about your work to Lady Kauffman at the Royal Academy."

Emily lowered her voice to a whisper. "You've barely seen my work, only what I can sketch with charcoals."

"Ah, but Miss Dorsham claims you are best with a brush, and I'm confident in your skills because of the people who vouch for your talents."

Miss Dorsham nodded. "Emily is very talented. She painted both Mama's and my portraits. They turned out lovely."

"Lady Kauffman would welcome my recommendation. What do you say, Miss Thompson?"

He could see her mind weighing the pros and cons and willed her to say yes.

"Very well." Her desire for the academy must have won out over her wariness.

"Excellent."

Miss Dorsham clapped. "When shall we start? Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is the Lord's Day." Emily leaned back as a footman served the main course of prime rib roast with Yorkshire pudding and a side of Brussels sprouts in mustard sauce.

"Monday, then," Miss Dorsham said.

"I must order a canvas made." Emily seemed relieved at the possibility of a reprieve. "Those things can take time."

"I shall provide the canvas." Jacob inhaled the prime rib's savory aroma and raised his fork. "There's one already stretched in the attic."

Another resigned sigh crossed Emily's lips. "Monday it is."

The guests delved into the tender meat dripping with delectable sauce.

While Sir Hamilton asked Miss Dorsham about fashion, finally dragging her attention away, Jacob's focus drifted to Emily.

Her long lashes dipped and rose as she regarded the other guests, though she never peered in his direction. A tiny dimple flashed with amusement. She must've overheard something, though he paid no attention to the conversation. She sliced off a piece of meat, placed it in her mouth, and delicately chewed. He watched the slender muscles of her neck move as she swallowed.

"Are you enjoying the meal?" He couldn't keep himself from trying to draw her out. She had an odd effect on him.

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "The prime rib is delicious." She nudged a Brussels sprout with her fork. "I've never had Brussels sprouts, and seeing as they don't appeal to you, it has given me pause."

Jacob blinked and leaned in toward her. "I beg your pardon?"

Her eyes widened. "My apologies. I spoke out of turn."

"No, I'm curious whether I heard you correctly." He leaned to one side to study her response. "What did you say gives you pause?"

She swallowed. "It's obvious you don't particularly care for Brussels sprouts." Her gaze drifted to his plate. "You've eaten around them and hidden some under your bread."

Indeed. Most observant.

She tapped the mushy green ball with her fork. "My father doesn't care for them, either, so I've never had them."

"Really?" Jacob's respect grew for the small-town vicar.

"Why do you try to hide your Brussels sprouts?"

"Out of habit." He snorted and rested his fork on the side of his plate. "Our nanny used to force me to eat them." He imitated her stern voice. "‘Sprouts are good for a growing man's constitution.' Now that I have a choice, I don't consume them out of sheer rebellion."

Her lips spread into a captivating grin, curving around straight white teeth.

"You know"—she arched a sculpted brow—"a benefit of being the master of the house is that you get to say what can be served, or in this case, not served."

"Quite right. Would it offend the cook if I mentioned it immediately?"

"No doubt." She paused and tapped her index finger to her lips. "I believe you'll have to slip your preferences into normal conversation."

"Something like ‘the garden is sprouting well. Speaking of sprouts, I detest the kind from Brussels.'"

"I was thinking more along the lines of"—she mirrored his lean to one side—"while I was in Brussels, I dearly loved their chocolate, but their sprouts left much to be desired."

He burst out laughing, drawing the attention of those around him.

Emily hid her mirth behind her napkin.

"Along with Brussels sprouts, I shall add cold porridge to the items never to be served."

"Indeed, the devil's food, both of them." She grinned.

Her teasing roused his courage to ask what he'd been dying to know. "How fares Master Christian?"

Her expression brightened. "He's quite well but driving Mama and Papa to perdition. They're getting up in years, and it's a challenge for them to have such an energetic child. I help, but while I was out, Christian chased the chickens about the yard, scaring them so badly they refused to lay eggs for two weeks."

He smothered a chuckle.

"And then, he found Mrs. Hayes's hair powder, patted it all over his body, and pretended to be a ghost. The poor woman almost fainted."

His mouth split into a wide grin. "I did something similar to my mother as a boy." He sobered. "Would the two of you like to join me riding sometime?"

Her lips parted and air whooshed through. "Oh. Christian doesn't have a horse suitable to ride."

Blast. Jacob had forgotten there wasn't a pony in his aunt's stables. He'd have one ordered immediately.

Miss Dorsham cleared her throat. "Mama plans on hosting a party before we travel to London for the Season. I do hope you will attend, my lord."

"I'd be careful announcing such." Sir Hamilton perked up. "You'll attract those highwaymen who raid coaches. They particularly like coming out in the evening when the gentry are on their way to a soirée, lightening them of their jewels. Lord Warren, you were an oddity getting robbed during the day."

Jacob waved in a dismissive gesture. "There's no need to speak of it, thanks to Miss Thompson. Word has it that more raids have taken place on London Road." Most likely, Benton was behind those robberies, too, but to be certain, he must identify the lackeys and trace them back to their ringleader. "Have any of the local townsfolk gotten a glimpse of the brigand?"

Sir Hamilton rubbed his chin. "I heard there were two of them."

Technically, there were three. Lord Benton had two lackeys, but as the mastermind, Benton wouldn't need to participate in the robberies. He might have made a special appearance because of his vendetta against Jacob.

"Nimble and short of stature." Sir Hamilton pulled back his large shoulders and patted his round stomach. "Rules me out."

Lord Benton also, but the hearsay must be wrong. According to Lieutenant Scar, the other coach robberies took place after dark and Benton would keep his distance. If rumors were correct, he didn't like getting his hands dirty. Or it could be a separate ring altogether and Benton's daytime attack was merely a strike of vengeance.

"They keep their faces covered," Sir Hamilton said, "but I heard one has light eyes."

Jacob frowned. "They could determine eye color in the moonlight?"

Sir Hamilton shrugged and squirmed in his seat. The man didn't appear to like Jacob questioning his knowledge even if it was hearsay.

"I heard Lady Templeton was accosted on her way to the Partridges' house party." Miss Dorsham seemed eager to share the gossip she'd heard, retelling what she knew of the robbery, and then effectively using the Partridges' party to switch the topic back to her gathering. Jacob asked questions about the highwaymen, but it became apparent the other guests knew little.

Even as Miss Dorsham droned on, he found his attention on Emily. A wisp of hair escaped her chignon and dangled alongside her cheek, and the tiniest bit of dried blue paint tipped the loose strands as she studied each guest as though memorizing the scene to recreate later. Was she as keenly aware of his every move as he was of hers? She'd noticed his aversion to Brussels sprouts, so perhaps. She'd also proved to have a quick mind and pleasant sense of humor.

He found himself wanting to gain her approval and show his admiration for her. But why did he admire her so? Because she'd noticed he disliked Brussels sprouts?

A future with a vicar's daughter wasn't likely with his reputation, and he certainly wasn't seeking a wife. But she sparked an appreciation inside him, and a small part of the bitter acid that had corroded his heart washed away.