The Silver Squire. Mary Brendan
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a momentary scuffling sound, the woman was in the doorway, her apron polishing at the brass knob as though she intended shining it away.
‘Just afinishin’ off me chores, sir,’ she explained gruffly, still managing to bob her head at him as she toiled.
‘Quite…’ he said very drily. ‘I take it you have something appetising to eat about the place?’
Emma choked a spontaneous laugh, making Mrs Keene look nervously at her and Richard arrow her a speculative look. Now why had that not occurred to her? she thought hysterically. Had she offered him one of Mrs Keene’s delicious dinners, no doubt he would even now be halfway home.
‘Why, o’ course, your lordship. I’d be happy to fetch it direct,’ Mrs Keene hastily offered, elevating Richard’s rank in her enthusiasm. ‘La, miss, you missed out on your supper, didn’t you now? You should’ve said for it slipped me busy mind. Now, there be beef silverside and vegetables roastin’. Or mutton hotpot on the hob…an’ a dumplin’…’
Richard looked at Emma questioningly for a choice but she simply held onto her newly gurgling stomach and stared at Mrs Keene in amazement. Beef? Mutton? Dumplings? Where was salt bacon and carrots?
‘Now, not that it be none o’ my concern, o’ course, as to what you choose, but the beef do look a treat an’ fit for a conasewer o’ fine fare…’
‘Fetch two plates of the beef and hurry, if you please,’ Richard clipped across Mrs Keene’s recommendations, making the choice for them both.
Mrs Keene was like a whirlwind. Within a few minutes of her leaving them alone, she was back, accompanied by the young girl who helped in the kitchens. Cutlery, bread, butter, pickles, wine and beer all decked the small parlour table while Emma watched. Then, just as she was about to get a grip on her pride and her senses, and tell him he could dine here alone for she wanted none of it, the steaming plates appeared and she was lost. The beef certainly looked and smelled as good as her landlady had lauded.
Mrs Keene hovered in the doorway with her knees bent and a piece of her skirt held daintily out at an angle in thumb and forefinger.
‘Thank you, Mrs Keene,’ Richard said graciously. ‘And your chores for the day are finished now, are they not?’
‘Yes, sir, indeed they are, sir,’ she emphatically declared, and at his peremptory nod she was gone.
Emma remained by the wall, her eyes on the table, still striving for the courage to reject it…and him. Just a chunk of that aromatic bread would suffice, she realised, if she could snatch it on the way to the door.
‘Sit down.’ His order sliced evenly through her half-hearted abstemiousness and for some reason she immediately obeyed. Approaching the table, she sank into the chair he had pulled out. Seating himself opposite, he pushed one laden plate of beef and vegetables towards her, lavishly buttered a chunk of springy warm bread and, unperturbed, started eating.
After a silent moment when Emma simply stared hatefully at the tempting savoury repast as though wishing it all to be stringy, salty bacon and carrots boiled to a mash, she picked up her knife and fork.
They ate in silence yet Emma refused to meekly avoid his eyes. From time to time, she forced proud topaz eyes to meet steady silver, desperate to match his mild, expressionless demeanour. But she knew it was impossible. Every time he pushed bread her way or refilled her glass with sweet wine she tensed, wanting to throw it back at him. And he knew it, too, she realised as her eyes again rose valiantly and swept past dark, sardonic features on the way to glare at the fire.
When she was full and simply shook her head at him as he offered her more, he finally said, with absolute calm and reason, ‘I think that it would be wise for your family to know of your whereabouts.’
‘Leave us all be,’ Emma responded with quiet civility, sensing an unspoken truce between them that she was willing to momentarily honour. ‘You will cause us more grief by interfering. No one will thank you for broadcasting this matter, least of all my parents.’
There was a new, narrow-eyed intensity to his gaze. ‘Have you been sent away? Banished from London?’
Emma averted her face, feeling it heat in indignation on comprehending his obtuse meaning. So he classed her morals as no better than those of the women he consorted with, did he? But his base imaginings might just serve her purpose, she realised, her refreshed mind back to investigating devious tactics.
Yes; why not comply? It would be sure to disgust and alienate such a hypocritical degenerate. If there was an infallible way to rid oneself of a gentleman’s presence, it must be the hint of an approaching, illegitimate birth. Speculation as to the child’s paternity was sure to be bandied about.
‘It is a very delicate matter, sir, for a lady in my position…’ Emma whispered. And at least I am a lady! she would have loved to raucously screech at him, but resisted and demurely lowered her face. ‘And I do not wish to say more. I’m sure you understand…’ she timidly concluded, pressing her lips tight to conceal a small, satisfied smile.
‘But I wish you to say more for I do not understand,’ he rejected with silky steel. ‘Have your parents sent you away to avoid a scandal?’
She remained diffidently quiet yet was aware of his absolute stillness, his absolute attention. When the silence between them dragged interminably some of her smug confidence evaporated and her stomach’s mellow satiety began to curdle.
‘Are you with child?’
‘I beg you will not press me on the matter, sir,’ she pleaded shrilly, agitatedly, swivelling sideways on her chair. He hadn’t leapt up and excused himself as she’d expected; moreover, he seemed content to simply sit and singe the top of her head with a quicksilver stare.
‘What of your lover? Where is he?’ he asked quite levelly, yet on shoving himself back from the table the chair almost tipped over.
She was aware of her body receiving a disturbingly thorough assessment. No doubt he did know of such things, she realised acidly. She’d seen him at the Fallow Buck with a child. Whether it was born of his wife or his mistress was anyone’s guess. As Victoria had never mentioned Dickie—as she affectionately termed him—marrying, the child, she presumed, must be the offspring from some base union.
She and Victoria exchanged letters quite often. Via one of those, Emma had learned that this man had moved abroad a year or more ago to oversee his foreign estates. Such a shame he ever brought himself back! she viciously thought, squirming beneath his unrelenting observation.
‘Is he married already or refusing to support you?’
‘Please, do not ask for I…I really cannot say…’
Well, how lucky can you get? Richard sourly mused. You wanted her and now it looks as though not only can you have her but another man’s bastard, too. For God’s sake, leave now! he urged himself. You’ve done your best. You’ve fed her…offered to help. She doesn’t want your aid. She’s never liked you. Even at your mannerly best, she never liked you, he mocked himself, recalling how attentively civil he’d been to her three years previously in London when he and David Hardinge had been the bane of polite society. And there, of course, lay a prime reason why he was loath to abandon her: he owed it to the best friend he had ever had to protect her, for David’s wife, Victoria, cherished this woman as a very dear friend.
In fact, he was quite surprised that she hadn’t fled into Hertfordshire to seek support from Victoria rather than head this way where she seemed friendless and alone…unless…He twisted on his heel. Of course, you fool, he silently berated himself. If she’s headed this way, that’s because her lover lives locally. ‘How long have you been in Bath?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Five days,’ Emma answered honestly, yet looked warily at him.
So she’d been here five days and was starving and seeking employment, which meant that the bastard had no intention of taking on his responsibility. If he was already married the least