And yet. He slumped in the leather chair and rubbed his eyes.It would be nothing to your status as Viscount Sydenham,whispered Emilia Greene’s voice in his head. Rubbish—even though she must know, as the granddaughter of an earl. She was from that society. She surely belonged there; she’d be a beauty in silk and jewels . . .
No. He righted his thoughts. He should be thinking of her words, not ofher,and how her proposed plan would affect Charlotte, nother.She was... He dropped his head into both hands and groaned. She had intrigued him, and not only with her shocking proposition.
Resigned, he took out a sheet of paper and dashed off a single line. He smiled humorlessly as he sanded and folded it and wrote her direction. The note she’d given him with the information was back at Vega’s, tucked into the file of information Forbes had gathered. It was a sign of how doomed he was that he remembered it anyway.
Nick locked away the accounting and rang for Pearce. He was too tired to add up the numbers now; it was better that he get some sleep. When the butler came, Nick gave him the sealed note. “Have this delivered at once.”
“Yes, sir. Shall he wait for an answer?”
He knew what the answer would be. “No. Wake me at four.”
CHAPTERFIVE
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 sayingNomore 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. Itwasfiner. 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.”
