Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris. Amanda McCabe
held tightly to his hand. ‘It has nothing to do with the meeting, Father, I’m sure of it. It happened long after I left the hall. I was just being silly, distracted by a daydream. I will always take the carriage from now on, I promise.’
Mary returned with a glass of brandy and Emily took a bracing gulp of the amber liquid, glad of its steadying warmth.
‘Well, Paris is out of the question now,’ her father said.
‘Oh, no, Father,’ Emily argued. ‘We can’t let one strange incident get in the way of our business. I swear to you, I will be much more careful in the future.’ And the letter-writer, and that night’s follower, if they were indeed one and the same, could never be allowed to interfere in what really mattered: her work.
Her father looked as if he very much wanted to argue with her, but he just shook his head and patted her hand. ‘We will talk about it tomorrow, my dear. You look exhausted. Let Mary take you up to bed now. You need some rest.’
Emily nodded. She was exhausted, but she feared she wouldn’t find quiet sleep that night. She let Mary lead her up to her chamber, brush her hair and help her into her nightdress. The maid stayed beside her, reading from a book of poetry, as Emily climbed into bed. She closed her eyes and for a moment the fearful image of the dark alley wasn’t there at all. Instead she saw a sunny French garden, Chris’s teasing smile as he kissed her in that garden maze, and she was able to drift into slumber.
* * *
Albert Fortescue glanced through the darkened doorway at his peacefully sleeping daughter. In her slumber, she looked younger, serene, all the cares of the day, her endless energy, still for the moment. It reminded him of when she was a little girl and he would read her a bedtime fairy story, tuck her in before he went off to a dinner party or the theatre. Those quiet, precious moments, gone much too quickly.
But what wasn’t gone, what would never be gone, was his need to protect her. To keep her safe. He had promised Emily’s mother, as she lay dying, that their daughter would always be safe. Now he feared he was failing in that vow.
He remembered with an anguished pang the frightened look on her face earlier and the anger that anyone would dare treat her like that. His Emily, his precious girl!
Albert knew he had not raised her as most girls were. But how could he have done differently? He had been on his own for most of their life together. Emily had no mother, no aunt, no grandmother to guide her. Perhaps he should have married again, given her a stepmother, but the business took all his time. They had seemed to do well, the two of them, and his Emily was so smart, so full of energy, so independent. She was a true assistant in his work.
Yet he was not as young as he had once been. He could feel his own strength flagging and one day, perhaps much sooner than he could have wished, he would have to cease working so much. It was time to organise, once and for all, things he had put off for too long.
Emily needed a protector, someone to stand by her side in life. A husband who could give her a secure place in society, give her a family so she would never be alone and perhaps take over the reins of his business once he could no longer do it. She needed someone—before it was too late. The danger she’d run into that night only proved that to him.
Albert sighed and ran a hand over his face as weariness and worry washed over him. How to convince Emily of this urgency? Every time he thought he had found a proper suitor for her, his darling, headstrong girl turned her nose up at them! She always had an argument against them and he would never want to see her with someone she could not love. Someone she could love as he had once so loved her mother.
Surely, though, there was a man out there who would be worthy of his intelligent, kind-hearted daughter? A man they could both trust?
Emily sighed in her sleep and Albert hurried to tuck the blankets closer around her, just as he had done when she was a child. ‘Don’t worry, my dearest,’ he whispered. ‘I will find a way to make it right...’
‘And Lord Henry Haite-Withers is getting married! I’m quite sure you remember him, Christopher, he is the son of my dear friend the Marchioness of Barnsworthy,’ Beatrice Blakely said, her voice touched with barely concealed reproach. She gestured to the butler to bring in dinner’s next course as she told Chris of every bit of marital gossip.
Was it only the fish course? Chris could have sworn they should be on the fruit and cheese at least. He felt as if he had been sitting there in the gloomy parental dining room for two days.
It was ever thus with his monthly obligatory family dinners. The dining room was a cavernous space decorated in the dark greens and burgundies of the style of his mother’s youth, back when the Queen was a young mother and not grandmother of an Empire. Every corner was stuffed with tables of bibelots, porcelain figurines, old silver, vases of peacock feathers, and the dining table was laden with gilded bowls of fruit and flowers. It was draped in green damask, lined with rows of gold-rimmed crystal and platters, even when it was only he and his parents dining. It was all dark, airless, lifeless.
Yet the decor was only the outward representation of the unspoken emotions that always hung heavy in the air. His parents had not spoken a word to each other in years, if they could possibly help it, and when they did it was only for his father to send barely veiled barbs at his mother and his mother to ignore them and chatter on to no one in particular about gossip. It had been thus for nearly as long as Chris could remember. Leaving for school, even with its cold baths and canings, had been a blessing.
Matters seemed to have got even worse since Will left for his diplomatic postings abroad and married Diana Martin. Chris adored Di, she was the perfect sister-in-law, and had brought such laughter to his solemn brother’s life. Yet Chris still couldn’t fathom how Will had been able to take the matrimonial plunge in the first place. Not with such an example of connubial disharmony before them every day of their lives.
Chris took a deep gulp of his wine. ‘Is he indeed? Old Harry... Who has he tricked into taking him on, then?’
‘Oh, Christopher...’ His mother sighed. ‘Lord Henry is quite respectable now, running his father’s estate in Devonshire. His fiancée is Miss Golens, a very pretty girl, I think. Perhaps you remember her from last Season? Mrs Golens, her mother, is very charming and she and I had rather hoped you might hit it off with her yourself. She really is very sweet.’ She sighed again and picked at her trout amandine. ‘But, alas, I think every good debutante from last Season is now spoken for.’
Chris’s father, who had said barely three words since the wretched meal began, shot his wife a thunderous glance. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Beatrice? Christopher is hopeless. He will never make a respectable marriage, never settle into any useful work at all. You should direct your energies elsewhere.’
‘Oh, one must never give up hope,’ Beatrice murmured.
Chris, ever mindful of the careless façade he had to maintain, gave his mother a wide grin and drained his wineglass. He gestured to the footman for a refill. ‘I’ve been working ever so hard, Father. I go to the office for, oh, at least three hours every afternoon. It gets terribly in the way of what’s really important.’
His father’s face darkened. ‘Your brother got you that job and you should be grateful to him! He has better things to worry about than his ne’er-do-well sibling, with his postings in Vienna and now Paris, a wife to take care of...’
‘And I’m sure a nursery to set up soon,’ his wife said hopefully, but her husband ignored her.
‘You should try to make William proud, not embarrass him—embarrass all of us—at every turn. If you botch up this position, it could ruin his chances for advancement,’ Chris’s father went on. He brought his fist down on the table, rattling the copious silver and china, making Chris’s mother cringe. ‘What other pursuits could be so important as