“Yes.” Lucy sobered as well. “Will he like me, do you think?”
If he wants to keep his head attached to his neck, thought Emilia. “I’m sure he’ll like you much better than he likes me.”
“No! Oh, Millie, he couldn’t dislike you! You’re so lovely and clever and kind . . .”
“As are you,” Emila returned, wrinkling her nose. “But you didn’t walk into his club and demand he do this and that, and care for a property in Dorset, where no one wants to live—”
Lucy’s giggle cut her off. “You wouldn’t tell him he has to live in Dorset! That would frighten anyone!”
If they had endured what Lucy had there, it would. “I did not mention Dorset. I thought we’d best wait for that until he’s had some of Mrs. Watson’s lavender cakes, and is so content he won’t care about anything else.”
“Of course.” Lucy smiled again. It was a miracle she could do that after mention of Dorset.
“But now,” said Emilia in mock sternness, “if you’re out of bed, you should get dressed, Miss Sidney. And then we must begin anew on French.”
Lucy heaved a sigh. “Can’t we do dancing? I like dancing so much better.”
“Later. After French and sums.” Emilia helped her up and they climbed the stairs together.
At the top, Lucy stopped. “Millie,” she said hesitantly, “he will come, won’t he? And he’ll help us?”
“I hope so.”
“That’s good,” said Lucy softly. “Then I will like him.” She turned and headed toward her room, the cat trailing along behind her with his tail swishing from side to side. And Emilia could only watch her go, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest.
Mr. Dashwood would agree to claim that title, if she had to hound and harass him for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Here’s the report you wanted.”
Nick barely glanced at the packet Forbes laid on his desk, focused on rubbing the tight muscles at the back of his neck with both hands. A patron had needed to be escorted out earlier, but he was pickled drunk and in a fighting mood about it. He struck two footmen before Nick could persuade the man to get into a carriage. For his efforts, he’d been thrown against a wall and called a number of rude names, and tomorrow Lord Fitchley would be his usual arrogant self, unapologetic and unashamed. Nick was beginning to regret admitting him to the club.
“Why don’t you give him the boot?” asked Forbes, divining Nick’s thoughts. “Fitchley’s an ass.”
“He is,” Nick agreed. His shoulder would ache like the devil later. “But he wagers incredible sums of money without blinking an eye.”
Forbes grunted. “Is that the new standard for membership?”
“Hardly. It is beneficial to our profits, though.” Nick cast a weary eye on the packet. “What’s this?”
“Miss Emilia Greene.” Forbes pronounced her name like a courtier announcing the queen. “The lady who barged in at dawn a week ago bearing a forged note and somehow got an audience on the spot.”
“Forged?”
“Lord Oliver McCorquodale has been in Scotland these past two months or more, according to all his household staff.”
Nick remembered almost nothing of that note. He wished he could say the same about the woman. “Which means . . . ?”
“The note said it was an urgent matter. Either his lordship wrote that several weeks ago, which doesn’t seem very urgent to me, or he didn’t write it at all.” Forbes smirked. “Miss Greene”—again he pronounced it with airs—“is a friend of his sister, Lady Arabella, though.”
Nick glared at his manager. “Close the door behind you.”
Forbes grinned. “Aye.” He left and closed the door with an impertinent snap that make Nick wince. Fitchley had given him a headache to go with the sore shoulder.
He flipped over the packet and opened it. Forbes’s tight handwriting filled three pages, which surprised him. How much was there to report of a governess, even one that bold?
The first page was surprising. Miss Greene was actually Miss Greeneborough, niece of the Earl of Harlow. She was the daughter of the earl’s deceased younger brother, and around twenty-seven years of age. She’d been educated at a well-respected academy for young ladies, but through some circumstances Forbes did not illuminate, she’d left her family and become a governess. Because of her upbringing and education—and despite her attractiveness—she was apparently a smashing good one. She’d been with Lady Helen Fairchild, receiving some credit for that lady now being Countess Mulworth, and currently had charge of Miss Lucinda Sidney, aged nine or ten. More or less exactly as she had told him.
And yet there were two more pages. Nick flipped to the second with increased interest. What had Forbes’s running boys discovered that required two additional pages?
Forbes had sensed where the true intrigue lay. The second page was about the late Viscount Sydenham, Lucinda’s father, dead nearly eight months now. Arthur Sidney had been a recluse, surly and rude on the rare occasions he was seen in society. He had kept mostly to Beaufort Hall in Dorset, but on his few visits to London, he’d made quite an impression. He’d been blackballed from White’s and Boodle’s clubs. He’d been thrown out of the Royal Academy summer exhibition after getting into a fistfight with a curator. He’d shoved a bishop in church, caused a disturbance at the Theatre Royale, and was widely known to be a hot-tempered, malicious fellow.
In his long history of running card games, Nick had met every sort of scoundrel and rogue. Each of them, to a man, had left a trail of unmet promises: to family, to friends, to neighbors, to superior officers, to creditors. He knew what was on the third page before he read it.
Lord Sydenham hadn’t just been rude and unlikeable, he’d also been bankrupt. Forbes couldn’t learn how deeply in debt he was, but rumors ranged from “skint” to “up the River Tick.” His solicitor, Mr. Fitzhugh Bennet, had died suddenly several weeks after the viscount, allegedly leaving his client’s affairs in disarray. Servants who’d quit the household complained that they hadn’t been paid in two quarters or more. And of course, the man had no direct heir, leaving the estate—whatever there was of it—in limbo.
That explained Miss Greene’s desperation to find any cousin at all. Sydenham must have left his daughter in terrible circumstances. It certainly wasn’t a unique story, although generally lords were more determined to preserve their estate and fortune than ordinary men. Perhaps Lord Sydenham hadn’t cared as much, since he had no son to inherit, and no fortune to leave.
But still: a cracking good governess could find a new post, and the child must have some relations who would take her in. What had made Emilia Greene decide to invade his establishment at dawn and demand that he assume the title? Why did she think he’d be any better than the last viscount?
Nick certainly didn’t.
With a muttered curse he swept the papers into the file and tossed it into the cabinet. He didn’t want to think about Emilia Greene. Not about the way she bobbed up on her toes when she called him an idiot. Not about the way her vivid blue eyes widened in astonishment when he said a rude word. Not about the way her pretty face went pink when he said he’d received many propositions, right before she cut him down to size. He didn’t want to think about disappointing her. He didn’t want to feel responsible for her.