Chapter Eleven
It was past midnight. Neil knew he ought to be asleep, but he also knew—without even setting his head upon the pillow—that sleep would not come.
The house was silent at last. Lord Farendale and his daughter had kept the servants running about with a host of tasks until late, while Lady Farendale sat motionless in a corner, silent as a statue.
Dinner had passed without incident, full of trivial chatter and fashionable gossip. Aunt Harriet had dominated the conversation, much to Lord Farendale’s visible annoyance, while Neil himself had spoken little. He had no wish to recall the meal and hoped that future ones might prove less tedious.
He knew, in his heart, they would not.
How long did the Fairfaxes intend to stay? Lady Constance, having recovered her composure since their introduction, had spent the entire evening attempting—and failing—to catch his attention. Aunt Harriet was determined that Emma should soon join them for dinner, and Lady Constance had declared, with conspicuous enthusiasm, that sheadoredchildren. Neil was not deceived as to the object of that remark.
Lady Constance was undeniably pretty and possessed all the polished manners expected of a young woman of fashion. She had even asked, most graciously, whether there might be a pianoforte or harp she could play after dinner, and looked crestfallen to be told no. Aunt Harriet had shot Neil a long, pointed glance at that, clearly recalling Catherine’s pianoforte.
He had ignored her. He could not picture Lady Constance seated at that instrument; all he saw were Miss Winter’s slender fingers upon the keys. It was not Lady Constance’s fault—but he wished, fervently, that she would leave him be.
Now that they were all abed, he could at last return to work. A small pile of correspondence awaited his attention, along with a note from Simon, delivered during dinner.
Neil,the note read,we have been invited to a card party at Lord Pemberton’s London house. I know it’s a long journey, but it would be a good chance to refresh our connections and gather intelligence. Think about it and let me know. Yours, Simon.
He would have to go. Too long away from London, and one ceased to exist in the eyes of the world. He could not afford to vanish. Groaning, he pushed the note aside and pressed his hands over his face.
“Uncle?”
He started. The single candle upon his desk flickered wildly, throwing deep shadows about the study.
Emma stood in the doorway—barefoot, pale, and dishevelled, like a little ghost in her nightgown. Her braid had half-unravelled, her eyes were enormous and dark with sleep. She shivered. Neil realised with a pang that she must have crossed the stone floors of the Great Hall barefoot to reach him.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he exclaimed, rising swiftly. “You should have been asleep hours ago, Emma.”
She bit her lip. “I had a nightmare.”
He sighed. Jenny usually slept in the adjoining room for this very reason. What on earth was he meant to do?
“You should have woken your nursemaid,” he said gently.
“I didn’t want to wake her.”
With another sigh, he gathered her up. “Very well, let us get you back to bed. What was the nightmare about?”
Her cold little hands looped around his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder.
“There was something under the bed. A horrid thing with warts and tentacles.”
“Tenacles, you say?”
She nodded furiously. “Slimy ones. They tried to grab me when I got up. There were spiders, too.”
“Ah,” Neil murmured, “I see. Well, you know the truth about monsters under the bed, don’t you?”
He carried her up the stairs, his footsteps muffled on the carpet.
“You’re taking me back to bed,” Emma said suddenly, her voice small. “I don’t want to go back to bed.”
“You must, Emma.”
She began to wriggle in earnest, and Neil—utterly at a loss—tightened his hold just enough to keep from dropping her. “Hush, now. You’ll wake the whole house—”
He nudged the nursery door open with his foot. The child wriggled free, tumbling to the floor in a heap.
