“Yes, sir. Shall he wait for an answer?”
He knew what the answer would be. “No. Wake me at four.”
CHAPTER FIVE
For days Emilia anxiously waited for something from Mr. Dashwood. She tried to hide it from Lucy, because the girl was so convinced he would fall in with the plan that she was already calling him cousin. Emilia certainly had hopes as well, but she also remembered him saying No more than once. He might not send word. He might never come. The one man she needed to be avaricious and grasping might turn out to be neither, or perhaps too lazy to be of any use to her, and what would she do then?
But finally his reply arrived. She was dusting the dining room when the rap at the door came, and since Henry was in the kitchen fixing a broken damper and Mrs. Watson was at the market, she answered it herself.
“From Mr. Dashwood, for Miss Greene.” The messenger handed over a sealed note.
Her heart leapt into her throat. “Will you wait for a reply?”
“No.” He gave her a cocky grin. “Mr. Dashwood says he knows the answer.”
He left her gripping the door handle to keep her balance. Dear God. Was he refusing? No, he couldn’t . . . he mustn’t . . .
She tore open the note. Call at the Vega Club at half past five this evening to discuss your proposal. Relief made her knees weak. It wasn’t acceptance, but it wasn’t refusal, either.
Her first visit to Mr. Dashwood had not gone particularly well. Now she realized she needed every advantage she could scrape, and looking better able to deliver on her promises was one. Her next encounter with him needed to succeed, and to that end, she enlisted Mrs. Watson and Lucy and even Henry.
“The yellow?” She held up the dress over one arm. “Or the blue?”
“The yellow is most fetching,” said Mrs. Watson.
“The blue looks best with your eyes,” put in Lucy.
“Hmm, yes,” said Mrs. Watson doubtfully. “But it’s more worn.”
“They’re both worn.” With a sigh she dropped the dresses on her bed and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Which would convey that she knew what she was talking about when it came to the aristocracy?
“What about the black one?” asked Henry from the doorway. “It looks finer.”
Emilia flinched. It was finer. The black had once been her best and favorite gown, pale pink silk with lace net. When her father died, she’d been persuaded to dye it black for mourning. If she’d known it was the last beautiful dress she’d own for ten years, she wouldn’t have done that. “Black! Won’t it send the wrong message?”
“Not,” said Mrs. Watson thoughtfully, “if you remove the net overdress and add it to the blue. It will add an elegant touch and disguise the worn seams of the blue dress.”
Lucy bounced on her chair. “Oh, yes! And I still have that blue silk ribbon that was Mama’s, which you may borrow. It would look so lovely in your hair.”
Emilia held up the blue gown doubtfully. “That’s quite a lot of fuss for one meeting.”
“Not if it’s an important meeting.” Mrs. Watson took the dress from her.
“True.” Given how much depended on this meeting, it was foolish to cut any corner. Emilia stifled her qualms and reached for the scissors.
It took hours, but the dress came out better than expected. Mrs. Watson could run a line of stitches faster than anyone Emilia had ever seen, and once sponged and pressed, the blue dress glowed with some of its former luster, even if it was a bit snug. Lucy brushed out her hair as Emilia repaired a hole in her stocking, and by five she was dressed and coiffed, almost as she’d used to do years ago.
“Lovely,” said Mrs. Watson with a smile. “How could any fellow refuse you now?”
Emilia smiled grimly. Mr. Dashwood was very much not the usual fellow. “Let us hope.”
Henry found her a hackney. They could ill afford it, but Mrs Watson had put her foot down. She’d been aghast when Emilia walked home alone after her first visit to the Vega Club. Henry handed her up, hesitating before closing the door.
“Good luck, miss,” he said solemnly.
Emilia gave him a nod more confident than she felt. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll do my best.”
He grinned, the sunlight glinting on his ginger hair as he bobbed his head. “I know.” He closed the door and chirped at the driver, who set off.
She clasped her hands, almost in prayer. Henry, like Mrs. Watson and especially Lucy, was depending on her. She had to succeed.
Tonight the Vega Club was lit up like a theater before a performance. The door opened before she could even raise the knocker, in the hand of a young man in footman’s livery. Emilia nodded regally to him, trying to act as if she belonged there. The same large fellow who had intercepted her before appeared almost at once. “This way, Miss Greene.”
He led her into the large salon beyond the palms and asked her to wait there. She sat on a small sofa and glanced around, interested in spite of herself. How Arabella would marvel at this place. The carpets were thick and luxurious, the walls wainscoted in dark walnut, beneath gleaming chandeliers ablaze with candles. The furniture was light and elegant, and it almost looked like a drawing room, until one noticed the hazard tables and faro boxes. Through a far doorway she spotted white-draped dining tables, and the aroma of roasting beef made her inhale longingly.
It took her a moment to realize Mr. Dashwood was there at the end of the room, deep in conversation with another man in evening clothes, but from the attentive way he listened and nodded, she sensed he was an employee, not a patron.
Mr. Dashwood himself was dressed like a gentleman. His coat and trousers were dark, exquisitely cut and perfectly fitted; his waistcoat was a sultry saffron. As she watched, a quick smile slashed across his face, turning the hard planes of his face dangerously attractive.
Emilia’s stomach took a hard lurch. He still looked ruthless, but nonetheless she felt a pull, a visceral sense of fascination. Who was this man?
She was still reeling from it when he turned her way. His smile was gone but those otherworldly eyes were fixed on her, rather like Chester’s when he was stalking some prey. She jumped to her feet and groped for her scattered wits, desperate not to be wrong-footed this time.
“So this is what a gaming club looks like,” she said as he reached her. She turned her head as if in earnest study, when it was also partly an attempt to dodge his gaze. “I’ve long wondered.”
“Have you?” He was amused, his dark brows arching. “Good evening, Miss Greene.”
“Good evening, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me again. I’ve brought some notes—”
“Let’s have a tour first.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and took a step.
“What?” Her heart leapt into her throat. “No!” Walk through the most notorious club in London? She didn’t dare. She had expected to speak to him in his office again.
“No, no, allow me to satisfy your curiosity about the Vega Club. Don’t worry, no one will see you,” he said over his shoulder, correctly divining the reason for her alarm. Emilia was forced to hustle after him.
“I’ve come to discuss my proposition, not see the club,” she said breathlessly as he led the way through the high-ceilinged salon into a dining room, where perhaps a dozen tables were covered with white linen, silver candlesticks gleaming. The scent here of roast beef and fresh bread was almost aphrodisiacal; she couldn’t stop herself from inhaling deeply.