Page 20 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Eight

Whom do we dub as Gentleman? The

Knave, the fool, the brute—

If they but own full tithe of gold, and

Wear a courtly suit.

— ELIZA COOK, ENGLISH POET, “NATURE’S GENTLEMAN

Minutes later, Jordan stormed out of Lady Astramont’s after taking quick leave of his hostess. How dare Lady Emma rebuff him before a crowd of people!

He leapt into his carriage and ordered Watkins to drive to his club, her words still burning his ears. Then your life must be dreary indeed. The little chit had actually pitied him. Him! The Earl of Blackmore! A man who’d accomplished more in his lifetime than a dozen noblemen.

Just because he didn’t wander the streets in a perpetual state of infatuation like that fool Pollock didn’t mean his life was hollow and meaningless. He was respected, envied even, by all who knew him.

Perhaps he did go to bed alone most nights.

And there was the occasional time—more often, now that his stepsister had moved out—when his house felt like a pharaoh’s rich and cavernous tomb.

Sometimes life worked out that way. Chasing after love’s dubious promises only brought disappointment, as he’d learned very young.

If one allowed oneself to crave affection and happiness and to hope for more than simple contentment, one suffered pain.

Yet her voice still troubled his thoughts. Life is worth nothing without such luxuries.

As if a woman her age knew anything about life.

He snorted as he gazed out the window as dusk laid a gray, unforgiving cast over every walkway, especially in this part of London.

An aging strawberry seller trudged silently homeward, tugging a cart of half-sold berries with bare, chapped hands.

Farther along, a whore stood under the oil lamp seeking companions before the sun had even hidden its face.

Though he’d been raised with wealth and privilege, he’d seen a great many such sights, especially once his reformer stepmother had married his father. Indeed, sometimes he felt guilty that he’d escaped such penury. Anyone who did escape it should feel fortunate enough, without asking for more.

Yes, love was a luxury, more so than Emily …

Lady Emma … whoever she was … could ever realize.

Until Nesfield and Lady Dundee had dressed her up and set her on display, she’d never even left the country.

What did she know of love’s fickle nature, the way some people held out a promise of it, then snatched it away?

He curled his fingers into fists. She was a babe in the woods with her teasing and flirting and lofty statements about life. She thought because she wore satin gowns and spoke eloquently, because her companions lapped up her every fanciful word, she could say what she pleased and act irresponsibly.

Well, she was wrong. Such behavior would bring her attention in the worst quarters. If she weren’t careful, men would treat her as some fast-and-loose sort, and she’d be in danger.

If she were Lady Emma, she would find herself compromised by some fortune hunter.

And if she were Emily in masquerade? Nesfield would abandon her if she got into serious trouble.

Jordan couldn’t fathom what Nesfield was about—or Lady Dundee, for that matter, who seemed an intelligent woman—but it was obvious the man hadn’t created this masquerade to help Emily.

So whatever she planned to achieve was doomed to failure, no matter what she thought.

Thank God, they’d reached Brook’s at last. He left the carriage and hurried inside.

Brook’s was the favorite gentlemen’s club of many Whig members of Parliament and almost as old as its predominantly Tory counterpart, White’s, across the street.

Its sedate atmosphere and stodgy décor generally soothed his temper immediately.

Not tonight, however. Here, among his sensible peers, he ought to be able to relax. There were none of Astramont’s silly tittering females around, with their talk of fairies and romantic feeling.

But there was also no Lady Emma. She was back at Lady Astramont’s, with Pollock. Pollock was the one brushing against her, smelling her lavender scent, listening to her melodic voice. Deuce take the man! And deuce take her, too. How dare she choose Pollock?

Of course she’d done it to evade Jordan’s interrogations. It had to be. Still, whether she were Lady Emma or Emily, no one else had the right to her but him, and he’d make Pollock understand that the next time he saw the devil.

The servant took his greatcoat, informing him in respectful tones that Lord St. Clair awaited him in the Subscription Room. He muttered a curse. He’d forgotten all about his appointment with Ian.

When he entered the Subscription Room it took a few moments to find the viscount through the haze of tobacco smoke, but at last he spotted him in a corner.

Ian lounged in a chair beneath a sconce, with a pipe in one hand and his pocket watch in the other.

He glanced up and saw Jordan, then tapped the face of his watch as Jordan approached.

Jordan settled into the armchair opposite him and grumbled, “I’m here, Ian. You can put away the watch and the incredulous look.”

With a grin, Ian snapped the watch cover crisply shut, then restored it to his waistcoat. “That’s twice now, Jordan. Since you’re never late, I can only assume this is the early onset of senility. If you’re not careful, you’ll soon be talking to yourself as you dodder about in unlaced boots.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure. Last night was Pollock’s fault. Tonight, I simply forgot. It happens, you know, even to me. I’ve a great deal on my mind these days.”

“Lady Emma perhaps?” When Jordan scowled at him, he added, “You said you were planning to attend Lady Astramont’s breakfast, but I really didn’t think you would. You find her as annoying as the rest of us.”

Jordan took a cheroot from the gold case sitting on the table between them with its array of The Times and other papers. He lit it, then drew the soothing smoke into his lungs. “Yes, but Emily Fairchild was there. And I told you, I’ll do what I must to prove she’s an impostor.”

Drawing deep on his pipe, Ian shrugged. “Why not just write to Miss Fairchild’s father and ask where she’s staying in London? If he gives you Nesfield’s townhouse address, then you know Lady Emma and Miss Fairchild are one and the same.”

“I already thought of that, but I doubt it would do any good. Her father would have to be part of the scheme, or else why would he have let her come? Besides, the minute a letter arrives from me, questions will be raised about how Emily knows the Earl of Blackmore. You know how those country towns are: nothing but gossip.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because I was almost caught having a tête-à-tête with her in a carriage a couple of months ago.”

“You in a carriage with a complete innocent?” Ian tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. “You really are entering senility. How the bloody hell did that happen?”

A business acquaintance approached from behind Ian, looking as if he might speak to them, but Jordan’s patented scowl made the man redirect his steps in a hurry.

Then Jordan told Ian what had happened that night, leaving out the kisses, of course.

“So you see, it wasn’t either of our faults, and we got out of it fairly well.

But a letter from me would make people wonder about the night we were thought to be together.

And if by some chance I’m wrong about Emily—”

“Ah, so you admit you could be wrong. You saw her by moonlight, for God’s sake.”

“I know.” Jordan puffed hard on the cheroot.

And Lady Emma had described Castle Dundee in such loving detail.

Yet there was something about her … “I don’t think I am.

But I can’t take any chances. If Lady Emma isn’t Miss Fairchild, I wouldn’t want to ruin the latter woman’s reputation.

The Miss Fairchild I met didn’t deserve to be gossiped about. ”

“There may be another, perfectly logical reason for Lady Emma’s resemblance to your friend Miss Fairchild.”

“Oh?”

“Lady Dundee is originally from the same area, is she not?”

“Yes. The Nesfield seat is in Derbyshire. I imagine the countess spent her childhood there before she married.”

“Then she and the Fairchilds may be distant relations. Plenty of second sons go into the clergy. Perhaps Mr. Fairchild is Nesfield’s cousin or something. That may even be why he was given the living.”

Jordan drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

He hadn’t considered that. An uneasy knot formed in his belly.

What if all this time he’d been tormenting the woman for no good reason?

Though both women shared similar features and spoke their minds, Lady Emma did differ markedly from Emily.

Her coy flirtations bore no resemblance to Emily’s moralizing. And the way she kissed …

Good God. He could be completely wrong. And that changed everything.

“If you want to know for certain,” Ian continued, “why not go to Derbyshire?”

“I fear that wouldn’t be any less discreet. But I could send Hargraves, if he can’t find anything out from Nesfield’s servants.”

A dark look passed over Ian’s face. “I don’t know how much luck you’ll have there, even with Hargraves tackling the task.”

“Why not?”

“While you were at the breakfast, I went to Nesfield’s town house, hoping to speak to Lady Sophie. But the servants very politely rebuffed me, saying she was too sick for visitors. Don’t you find it odd that she should be ill so long?”

Jordan blew out a puff of smoke. “Not necessarily. If ever a young woman was prone to illness, it’s Lady Sophie.”

“True, but I think it’s her bloody father’s fault. I suspect that if she escaped his iron thumb, she’d be fine. Unfortunately, I have to go through Nesfield to get to her.”