Page 88 of The Soldier
Neither St. Just nor Emmie bothered to look back as they’d left the library, or they might have seen innocent, puzzled blue eyes turn calculating and determined as they peered over the back of the sofa.
***
“It needed only this,” St. Just growled. Emmie was leaving in two days time, the house felt like somebody was laid out in the parlor awaiting burial, the roads were a mixture of slush and mud, and now company was coming to call.
“Never fear.” Val clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You have reinforcements, St. Just.” The grin on his face received no answering smile from his brother, who was truly incapable of seeing humor in anything.
Val deloped for his piano precisely at the half hour, allowing St. Just to start verbally herding his guests toward the door, though Elizabeth flung up a last-minute resistance as he did.
“I understand Miss Farnum will be removing to her cottage soon, my lord. You must be relieved to have Rosecroft resuming normal operations.” Elizabeth gave him a perfectly guileless, perfectly nasty smile over a teacup that had to be empty for as often as she’d brought it to her lips.
“In fact”—he smiled right back—“I will miss her sorely, as well as the wonderful goods she makes and the wonderful scents filling my house as a result of her industry. I admire a woman who can put in a hard day’s work and have something delicious on the table to show for it.”
“One does admire honest labor in the working class,” Lady Tosten put in.
“It isn’t just her industry,” St. Just went on, feeling mean and knowing he should just shut up. “Emmie has been the soul of kindness to Miss Bronwyn during the worst of her bereavement, and even helped me locate a suitable governess for the child, as well as suitable candidates for the other staff positions we’ve had to fill here. Winnie and I will both be frequent guests at the cottage, I am sure, and not just on baking days.”
Emmie, forgive me.It wasn’t well done of him to use Emmie for a decoy, but the Tostens were hardly being subtle in their campaign, and time spent with them was purely time wasted.
“Your gratitude to the woman does you credit,” Lady Tosten allowed, finally coming to her feet as Steen appeared with their cloaks. “Come along, Elizabeth, we must still pay a call on that nice Mr. Neely and his girls, as their cousin Jeffrey has come to visit them. St. Just, a pleasure.”
“Ladies.” He bowed, closing the door behind them, leaving Steen to see them out. When he heard the front door slam, he stuck his head in the music room, where Val was hammering away at finger exercises. “They’re gone, you can come out now.”
Val burst into a thundering version of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” winking at his brother from behind the keyboard.
St. Just slumped against the wall of the music room. “If I haven’t told you lately, little brother, I do adore your playing.”
“And my dear self, too, of course,” Val said, bringing the volume of his playing down and beginning to improvise on Handel’s theme. “So why do you put up with them? Why not just growl and throw your food bowl and appear with tea stains on your half-unbuttoned shirt?”
“Is that how it’s done?” St. Just opened his eyes to smile at Val. “I’m not sure how that will fit in with the plan to marry me to the girl. Might put her off a bit, don’t you think?”
“Her?” Val shook his head. “Not possible, not with that reptile of a mother. Elizabeth, I’m sure, would marry you if you were drooling and cross-eyed, just to get free of her dear mama.”
“Give me a week,” St. Just muttered, “and I’ll have the cross-eyed and drooling part down.”
“Time for a trip to York?” Val hazarded as he crossed the left hand over the right.
“You interested?” St. Just cocked his head.
“I am not,” Val said, bringing his little concert to a close. “I have spent many, many happy hours cozying up to a certain Broadwood in a brothel, but the few times I was persuaded to go upstairs, it didn’t feel right. You will just have to go into York on reconnaissance and let me know what you find.”
St. Just turned toward his brother then, closing the door before he saw that Emmie stood just beyond, her expression dumbstruck. She made her way back to the kitchen before St. Just came upon her.
“Be grateful, Emmie,” he said ten minutes later while pouring himself a proper cup of tea and fixing it precisely to his liking. “Be glad, even, that you are not accepted by likes of those Tosten women.”
“Winnie doesn’t seem to care for them,” Emmie said, her voice remarkably steady for a woman who has just heard her lover—herformerlover—casually announce both a possible betrothal and an intention to visit the brothels.
“Winnie’s instincts are sound,” St. Just said, sipping his tea, “but she needs to refine their expression. I’m going to meet with my solicitor tomorrow. Is there anything you need in York?”
“I thought Mr. Halton normally came here.”
“I can use the exercise and so can Caesar.”
“I’ll think about it,” Emmie said, keeping her attention on the piecrust she was rolling out.
“Are you making apple tarts?” St. Just came over to pinch off a bite of dough. “You are. You dear lady.” He put an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Bothwell is not good enough for you nor for my apple tart recipe.” He dropped his arm and stepped back. “Best make extras, though, as Val and I might both want seconds.”
He sauntered out. A little snitch of dough, a casual squeeze and a kiss, and off he goes, Emmie thought, her mind in turmoil. Rationally, she knew he had every right and even an obligation to marry, just as Hadrian Bothwell did. Rationally, she knew he was a passionate man and one she must not dally with further. Rationally, she understood the young men of the aristocracy were tomcats—with mistresses, sweethearts, and wives rotating through their beds depending on the time of day. Rationally, she should…
