“Odessa—enticing a man to ruin you in order to avoid another is not wise.”
“I prefer to have Captain Phillips court me in the proper way, of course. But he’ll hardly call on me if an earl is doing so. Thus, I must rid myself of the new Emerson. It is only my poor luck the previous Emerson possessed an unwed brother.” She took another defiant bite of the onion. “I have no other recourse.”
“Odessa, this entire scheme is madness.”
Odessa made a face as she chewed, finally setting aside the gnawed vegetable on her vanity. If she had to, Odessa would ensure she and Phillips were caught in a compromising situation. It was incredibly dishonest of her, but he had shown great interest in her at Lady Curchon’s. Papa would be most distressed, but he would have no other choice but to accept Phillips. The last time Odessa had seen the dashing Phillips, it had been from a distance while attending the theater. He’d caught sight of her, smiled, and bowed in her direction.
“Phillips and I would suit far better than this Emerson I must greet. Do I look and smell appropriately disgusting?”
“You stink for certain,” Aunt Lottie answered. “And your appearance is that of a lumpy pear. Even I find you undesirable.” Her aunt took the remainder of the onion and tossed it out the open window.
“Perfect. He should find me repulsive within moments. I may try to appear demure at first, barely speaking, only belching in his direction.”
“Let us get on with this.” Aunt Lottie went to the door, cracked it open, and cast a gaze down the hall to make sure no servants lurked about. “Hurry and get down to the drawing room before Burns sees you.”
Chapter Seven
Jordan stood inthe foyer of the Whitehall home, once more greeted by Burns, before being shown to the drawing room to make the acquaintance of Miss Whitehall and her chaperone, Miss Maplehurst.
The bitter taste of Whitehall and his schemes filled Jordan’s mouth. He reminded himself to be polite at all times. Cordial. Engage the little twit in conversation and pretend great interest. Whitehall must assume Jordan to be completely trapped beneath his thumb. Obedient. Which he meant to be, up to a point. Patience had been forced upon Jordan at Dunnings. A hard lesson, but one he’d taken to heart. Besides, he’d raised pigs for God’s sake. Wallowed in the muck. Earned a purse or two by fighting in tavern brawls. Marrying some spoiled, unappealing chit to restore his fortunes was rather dull in comparison.
He’d done far worse for a bit of coin.
The reputation of the Sinclair family was another matter. Yesterday, Jordan had taken Aurora and Tamsin for an ice at Gunter’s. Aurora, against his protests, insisted on leaving the safety of their carriage to venture inside, thrilled to be at the fabled confectioners. Gunter’s quieted the moment Jordan set foot inside with his sisters. As they made their way to the wide counter, a low hiss came from one group of matrons having tea to their left. The air hummed with dozens of whispers all directed at the Sinclairs. The incident of Tamsin punching the Duke of Ware’s son in the nose years ago was repeated loudly enough for all the patrons to hear.
Tamsin’s back had stiffened upon hearing her name mentioned, but her steps never faltered. She ordered her ice in a calm, clear voice, and kept her chin lifted, not bothering to give the gossiping harpies so much as a glance.
Aurora lit up with so much pleasure as she was handed her treat, was oblivious to the scathing remarks directed at her. She’d giggled and held out her spoon for Jordan to taste.
The Deadly Sins. A bark of laughter.What gall they possess.
The words were murmured in a low, scathing tone by a finely-dressed lady. She pointedly tugged her skirts away from Jordan and his sisters as she passed.
A pig farmer, now an earl. Can you imagine? His brother, bless his soul, must be rolling in the grave.
The elder sister is a brazen hoyden. Punched the Duke of Ware’s eldest years ago. Too bad the act can no longer be avenged.
Maybe there’s hope for the youngest. But she is a product of—
Jordan had firmly pushed his sisters back outside. Aurora did not deserve to have her day spoiled. Thankfully, she appeared far too absorbed with her ice to give any notice to what was being said.
Not so Tamsin. The toe of his sister’s half-boots connected with the lady’s shin on the way out to the carriage.
Burns waved him forward, silently guiding Jordan to a pair of double doors. Swinging them open, he bowed. “Lord Emerson.”
Jordan blinked as he entered. The room was unusually dim, and the air held an unpleasant aroma beneath the usual smells of beeswax and fresh cut flowers.
The curtains of each window had been drawn tightly against the sun attempting to brighten the drawing room. A bare slit of light sliced across the toe of one boot as his feet sunk into the plush Oriental rug beneath his feet. A rug far finer than any at Emerson House. He peered through the poorly-lit surroundings, finally landing on a large watercolor of lilies above the fireplace. No family portrait, of course. Whitehall couldn’t possibly have any prestigious ancestors, or at least none that merited a portrait.
Jordan sniffed the air once more. What was that acrid scent? Familiar yet out of place in the drawing room. He turned to the two figures awaiting him. A young lady, hands clasped perfectly in her lap, sat on the settee. Or rather, hergirthwas spread across the blue tufted cushions. Miss Whitehall appeared to be quite fleshy. Her hips alone covered most of the settee.
An older woman, who must be Miss Maplehurst, was forced into the furthest corner of the settee to avoid her niece’s expansive form.
Miss Maplehurst’s lips lifted in a smile at seeing Jordan. Steam rose in the air from the teapot before her, obscuring, blessedly, her niece for a moment. Scones, along with an assortment of other pastries, all set out on tiny plates completed the picture.
“Lord Emerson. Thank you for accepting my invitation to call. I am Miss Maplehurst.”
“My pleasure, Miss Maplehurst,” he returned politely, moving to take her hand.
