Was that Christopher? Arriving on a horse as if he’d rode hells to leather from God only knew where? Good God, the horse was heaving for breath!
“Mama, is that—”
“Whatever has happened? His cravat is a mess! And there are wrinkles all over his clothes.”
Yes, Lord Christopher looked done in, though that was how the man usually appeared after a night at Carlton House. She knew because Max and Chris often came here after a night carousing with the prince.
“He hasn’t shaved,” she muttered. “He usually does that before coming here.” She knew that because she never, ever forgot what Lord Christopher looked like. She hadn’t since she first met him eight years ago when he had spent a summer with them in the country. And he, the cur, had completely ignored her. She’d run through all her adolescent wiles—twice—to no avail.
Something was different about him today. Certainly, the sun still turned his straw locks gold, his legs still ate up the ground with athletic ease, and his broad shoulders still looked strong enough to hold up the sky. But today there was an extra measure of excitement. A grin—or was it a grimace?—that dismissed the exhaustion from his face and gave his step extra urgency.
Her mother made it to her feet and together they stood at the parlor door. It wouldn’t do for them to appear to wait for him, so her mother liked to pretend she was just stepping through the parlor door when the front door opened.
They waited three heartbeats for the knocker to sound. And another three for their butler Chiverton to pull the door open. And then Mama took two delicate steps into the hallway, speaking as if in the middle of a conversation.
“I won’t forget how Miss Appleton drank up all the punch last time. Very declasse—” She made a little gasp. “Why Lord Christopher! When did you get here?”
The man bounced toward them, his eyes alight with anticipation. “Good morning, Your Grace!” He kissed her hand with exquisite flourish. “And Lady Emmaline, you are a vision.”
He went to kiss her hand, and more fool her, she was already holding it out to him. Why couldn’t she stop throwing herself at him? “It’s afternoon, Lord Christopher,” she said with a dampening air. It was uncalled for, but she was out of sorts today and he was an easy target simply because nothing she did ever touched him.
“Is it?” he drawled. “I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy, you see, managing an influx of Chinese into Carlton House.”
“Chinese!” her mother gasped, grabbing his lure with both hands. “I must know more!”
“Indeed, you must,” he said, “for you are directly involved.”
“Me!” Mama cried, as she pressed her hands to her bosom. “But whyever would I—I mean, I don’t know—You must explain at once!”
He leaned forward. “I shall explain everything, but first you must direct every spare room in the house to be aired and readied for guests. Every one, including, I suspect the servants’ quarters. I fear you shall need every bed. And notify your cook. Once the news gets out, I expect you shall have visitors aplenty and must feed them tarts or tea or something.”
“Visitors!” Mama exclaimed with breathy enthusiasm. “But the Season has barely started. We’ve only attended one ball and—”
“You shall be the talk of theton, I fear. This shall be a nine-day sensation.”
“A what!” Alarm filtered into the woman’s tone. It was a delight to be a one-day sensation, but nine days? That was a little much.
“You see…” he said with a dramatic pause, but Emmaline had had enough.
“Oh, spit it out!”
He arched a brow in her direction. Her mother did, too, although the woman added a stern admonishment. “Emmaline, what has happened to your manners?”
What had happened? What always happened. Lord Christopher showed up and acted as he always did—like a damned fool—playing into everyone’s worst traits. In her mother’s case, it was her sense of the dramatic, and so he held them both enthralled as easily as any magician on stage. But ifthere were things to be done, scandal to be managed, then they needed to know it without all the folderal. And so she would tell him in no uncertain terms. But instead of chastising him, she blurted out her fears.
“Has something happened to Max? Is he hurt?”
“Or is it his reputation?” her mother gasped. “Did he do something outré at Carlton House?”
That fear was almost laughable. What would be considered outrageous at Carlton House? The place was already infamous.
Lord Christopher’s expression softened, as did his voice. “Max has certainly stepped in it, but he is not hurt. At least not until Lady Kimberly finds out.”
“Finds out what?” Emmaline demanded.
The horrible man rocked back on his heels, straightened to his full height, and pitched his voice so that everyone—including the servants—would hear every word. “The prince has commanded that Max marry a Chinese concubine!”
Emmaline stared at the man. He didn’t appear crazy. Indeed, he appeared exactly like himself with an impish grin and dancing eyes. She knew he was smarter than he appeared, knew that he loved knowing things that others did not, and most important of all, she knew that he was not one to lie or create dramatic falsehoods just for the attention.
