Page 29 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Eleven

To act the part of a true friend requires more conscientious feeling than to fill with credit and complacency any other station or capacity in social life.

— SARAH ELLIS, ENGLISH MISSIONARY AND WRITER, PICTURES OF PRIVATE LIFE

Ophelia looked askance at St. Clair as she rose from the bench. “What do you mean, you can’t find them? They must be here somewhere.”

He seemed to share her concern. “I’ve searched every room, but they’re nowhere to be found.” He handed her a scrap of woven silk. “I did find your shawl, however. It was only a couple of rooms away.”

Of course it was. She’d purposely left it close by. So where on earth were they? A pox on Blackmore, that rascal. She should’ve known this would happen, especially after yesterday. And now it would be on her head, as well it should be. She was the one who’d let the girl in for this trouble.

“When I get my hands on that scoundrel …” she muttered as she hurried across the room.

St. Clair marched grimly beside her. “You can have him after I’m through. I swear, I had no idea he’d try something like this. Jordan isn’t generally irresponsible. Some might even say he’s too responsible sometimes. But he has this fool notion about your daughter that—”

When St. Clair broke off, she stopped and grabbed his arm. “What fool notion?”

He raked his hand through his hair. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Tell me what Blackmore is up to with my daughter!”

“It’s ridiculous. It’s just that—”

“There you are, Mama,” came a cheery voice from behind her. “I’m afraid we didn’t find your shawl. We’ve been looking everywhere.”

Ophelia turned to find Emily and Lord Blackmore approaching, a few paces apart. Though the girl was smiling, the smile was patently false. Her bonnet was on crooked and her face was flushed. And Blackmore was looking as fierce as those carvings of the soldiers she’d just seen.

Something had happened, something monumental. Tension emanated from them, as taut as a well-strung bow.

“Where in God’s name have you two been?” Ophelia asked, her angry gaze fixing on Blackmore.

Blackmore met it with unrepentant insolence. She found it a tad unnerving.

It was Emily who answered, the words coming out in a rush. “I’m so sorry if we worried you. When we couldn’t find your shawl, we spoke to the guards, but they hadn’t seen it, so we went out to the carriage and looked there. Didn’t we, Lord Blackmore?”

He hesitated a moment, his scowl deepening, if that were possible. “Yes,” he finally clipped out. “Of course. We went out to the carriage.”

A blatant lie if she’d ever heard one. But if they hadn’t gone out to the carriage, where had they disappeared to?

Ophelia held up her shawl. “St. Clair found it for me. How odd that you missed it. It was only a couple of rooms away.”

Emily wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Yes, how odd.” She looked as if she were thinking, then added, “Oh, I know. That must have been the room we skipped because Lord Blackmore said you hadn’t gone in it.

” She cast him a wan smile. “I told you we should check all the rooms, you silly man. But you were so insistent—”

He met her gaze, the muscles flexing in his jaw. “Yes, I’m nothing if not insistent. I eventually always get my way, you know.”

A fresh blush stained the girl’s cheeks as she returned her attention to St. Clair. “Well, in any case, I’m … I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our outing short, Lord St. Clair. That headache of mine—”

“Of course. I should have insisted that we change it to another day the moment you said something.” St. Clair shot Blackmore a stern glance. “I can be insistent myself, can’t I, Jordan?”

The two men stood glaring at each other until Ophelia cleared her throat.

Since no one was going to tell the truth, and since they were all obviously ready to throttle each other for things they wouldn’t discuss aloud, they might as well go home.

“Well, then, I suppose one of you gentlemen should call for the carriage.”

“I will,” Blackmore growled, then stalked off toward the entrance like some prowling beast.

As soon as he was gone, Emily visibly relaxed. St. Clair took her arm and led her in the same direction Blackmore had gone, with Lady Dundee following behind.

He gazed down at Emily with concern. “Are you all right? You look a little peaked.”

The smile she flashed at him was brittle and far too bright. “I’ll be fine as soon as I can lie down in a quiet room with a cold cloth on my head. You mustn’t worry.”

“With your cousin sick, I can’t help but worry,” he answered smoothly. “You might be suffering from the same ailment.”

Yes, indeed, an ailment called men. They were a plague upon women everywhere. Except for her dear Edward, of course.

Ophelia missed Edward. She’d known he wouldn’t approve, so she hadn’t told him of this farce.

Still, she wished he’d come to London. This was becoming more complicated with each passing day, and she could use his advice.

He was an excellent judge of character—he’d know what to make of St. Clair and Blackmore.

The ride back to Randolph’s town house was so quiet, she could practically hear each hoofbeat of the horses. But the silence failed to dispel the air of suppressed anger between Blackmore and Emily that vibrated like two tines of a tuning fork.

Somehow she would find out what had happened during their absence. Emily would not put her off this time.

When Blackmore’s carriage clattered up in front of the town house, St. Clair practically bounded out, as if in a hurry to escape the tension. Blackmore, however, didn’t move. “I’ll wait here for you,” he told St. Clair as the viscount helped first Emily, then herself from the carriage.

Good riddance. Ophelia was more than ready to escape both thorny men.

As soon as they entered the house, she began assuring St. Clair that he needn’t give any more thought to them and could leave at once.

Though he hinted broadly at his wish to see Sophie, she ignored him and watched with profound relief as he left, looking tense, discouraged, and more than a little angry.

Although she wanted to talk to Emily before Randolph could corner the girl, Carter approached her before she could even usher the girl into the parlor.

“There’s a Mr. Lawrence Phelps waiting to see you, milady.

I thought I would wait until his lordship left to mention it.

’Tis very strange. The young man claims to be Miss Emily Fairchild’s cousin.

Of course, I told him that Miss Fairchild will be coming soon to stay with Lady Sophie, but the young man insists that Miss Fairchild is here now and demands to see her. I put him in the parlor.”

“Thank you, Carter,” Ophelia said, dismissing him with a look. As soon as he left, she turned to Emily. “Is this Mr. Phelps truly your cousin?”

“Oh, yes.” Emily sighed. “He’s a barrister here. Papa must have written to tell him I was in town. What should I do? If I talk to him, the servants will wonder. Nor can I tell him what I’m doing. He’s very moral and might tell Papa.”

“Were you unable to elicit the truth from St. Clair or Blackmore? Must we go on with the masquerade?” Ophelia cast a quick glance at the closed door of the parlor.

“You interrupted just as Lord St. Clair was about to confess something important.” Emily whispered. “I’m nearly certain he’s the one. But not certain enough. I need more time.”

Ophelia thought a moment. “All right. I’ll handle your cousin.”

“What will you tell him?”

“You’ll see.” She nodded toward the door that led to the dining room, which adjoined the parlor. “You can listen from in there if you want. Now go on with you. We don’t want the lad to grow impatient and come out where he can see you.”

Emily nodded quickly, then hurried off into the dining room.

Ophelia waited until Emily disappeared, then entered the parlor only to catch the young man in question sifting through the letters that sat on a salver on the tea table. He whirled around, knocking the letter opener to the floor.

“Good morning, Mr. Phelps. I’m Lady Dundee. I trust you found our mail in order?”

Chagrin clouded his face. He bent to pick up the letter opener, but when he straightened, all hint of embarrassment was gone. “Good morning, my lady. I merely wondered if my cousin was receiving her letters.”

Secretly admiring his insolence, she swept to her favorite chair, then sat down, indicating that he do the same. “We’re keeping your cousin’s letters for when she arrives. I promise she’ll receive them all then.”

He took the chair she indicated. “I don’t understand. My uncle’s letter stated quite clearly that Emily was in town and staying at Lord Nesfield’s town house with Lady Sophie. I thought to pay her a visit, and instead was fed some Banbury tale about her being en route.”

Impudent puppy. She examined the young man more closely.

He was handsome, lacking the sober, pinched look of some barristers, and brazenly returned her gaze.

He had the appearance of a man used to rummaging through myriad facts to find the truth.

An intelligent fellow, no doubt. This would be tricky.

But Ophelia hadn’t reached her pinnacle of success in polite society for nothing. Spinning tall tales was her special gift. “Miss Fairchild was here. But she and Sophie left two days ago to visit a country estate. They won’t be back for some time.”

“My uncle didn’t mention anything like that.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “May I be frank, Mr. Phelps?”

“Yes, of course.”

“We didn’t tell him. Miss Fairchild feared that her father might not allow her to go, since the woman hosting the visit is … shall we say, more acceptable in my circle than among people of your father’s strict moral code.”