Quickly, concisely, they told him everything. The threats, Armand’s violence, the desperate lie that Emma told. Emma watched her brother’s face, saw the shock give way to a deep, empathetic understanding. When she finished, he was silent for a moment, his gaze finding Amélie’s across the room.
He faltered, his hand going to his cravat. Then he straightened, a new resolve hardening his features. He looked at Emma. “I know something about being forced into a life you don’t want,” he whispered, the words a quiet affirmation of the pact they had made in the boathouse. He nodded. “I will do it.”
Next, Lucy Pembroke was summoned. She entered the library, a vision of bridal anxiety in white muslin, her hands twisting a lace handkerchief. Emma’s stomach clenched. This was the cruelest part of their deception.
“Lucy,” Emmett began, his voice gentle. “There has been…a change of plans. Our engagement… It is at an end.”
Emma braced for tears, for the righteous anger of a jilted bride. Instead, an expression of profound, unmistakable relief washed over Lucy’s face. The tension fell from her shoulders.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, sinking into a nearby chair. She looked down at the glittering diamond on her finger, twisting it around and around. “I’ve been dreading this wedding for months,” she confessed, her eyes filling with tears not of sorrow, but of release. “Emmett, you are the kindest of men, but…my heart belongs elsewhere.”
The household was thrown into a state of controlled chaos. Orders were countermanded, then reissued. Servants, accustomed to the whims of the aristocracy, barely blinked as florists were instructed to replace the white roses with deep purple irises, and the wedding breakfast menu was hastily altered to accommodate French tastes.
Emma and Bainbridge became the calm center of the storm, a pair of generals directing a complex campaign. A notice was drafted and sent by messenger to the Brighton Herald, announcing that due to unforeseen circumstances, the union of Baron Cresthaven would now be to the esteemed Duchesse de la Coeur of Paris. A solicitor, roused from his breakfast, arrived to draw up the transfer of ownership for the yacht, his face a mask of professional discretion.
By midday, the illusion was complete. The transfer documents lay on the hall table, weighted down by a heavy silver letter opener.
Armand descended the staircase, dressed for travel. He did not glance at Amélie or Emma. He was all business. He inspected the papers with meticulous care, his finger tracing the solicitor’s signature, his cold eyes missing nothing. Satisfied, he signed his own name with a flourish, blotted the ink, and folded the document into his coat pocket.
He picked up his hat and his walking stick—now just a stick. At the door, he turned. His gaze found Emma, bypassing everyone else in the hall. His eyes were flat, cold, and they held a promise. This was not an end. It was merely a postponement. Then he was gone.
Emma watched from the library window as his carriage rattled down the gravel drive, shrinking into the distance. The immediate threat had passed. She felt a hand slip into hers. Amélie had come to stand beside her, her fingers lacing through Emma’s. She squeezed, a tight, silent message that needed no words. They had won.
For now. Outside, the world continued on, oblivious. But here, in the quiet of the house, a new world had just begun.
Chapter 13
Emma could barely breathe.
A strip of dark red silk, commandeered from a sewing basket, was tied gently over the duchesse’s eyes. The blindfold had been Emma’s idea. It made this feel less like a transaction and more like the beginning of a grand adventure.
They left the manicured world of graveled drives and clipped hedges behind, stepping into the raw, clamorous life of the shipyard. The ground underfoot changed from packed earth to splintery, uneven planks. A wall of sound and scent rose to meet them. Hammers rang against steel in a relentless, arrhythmic clang. Men shouted orders, their voices raw from the salt air, their words lost in the groaning protest of timbers being hoisted by creaking cranes.
Amélie’s hand tightened on Emma’s arm, her fine leather boots navigating the treacherous planks with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Mon Dieu, Emma, what is that smell?” she murmured, her voice a low conspiracy close to Emma’s ear. She wrinkled her nose, a gesture Emma could feel more than see. “It is as if a thousand fish have decided to die in the most offensive manner possible, and then someone has coated them in tar for good measure.”
Emma laughed, a real, unburdened sound. “It’s the smell of a future being built.”
“I prefer the smell of things that are already built. Preferably châteaux, with adequate plumbing.” Despite her complaints, she followed without hesitation, a testament to the trust forged in the crucible of the last twenty-four hours. Emma’s hand rested over hers, a firm, reassuring pressure. This was a world Emma understood far better than the duchesse—a world of grit and purpose, where a thing’s value was in its strength, not its beauty.
They moved through the throng of men finishing their day’s labor. Broad-shouldered sailors with weathered faces and dockworkers stripped to the waist, their bodies slick with sweat, paused to watch the two women pass. Emma felt their stares, a mixture of curiosity and masculine appraisal. An elegant lady of quality being led blindfolded by a plain-faced girl in a sensible dress was not a sight one saw every day on the Brighton docks. Emma lifted her chin, meeting the gaze of one bold-eyed sailor, her expression daring him to comment. He looked away first. She felt a surge of possessive pride, her grip on Amélie’s tightening.
This woman, this extraordinary creature, was with her.
“If you have brought me to a fish market to haggle for herring, Emmaline Goode, I shall never forgive you,” Amélie teased, her voice rising slightly over the shriek of a steam whistle. “I will make it my life’s work to ensure you never taste a properly made soufflé again.”
“Your threats are terrifying,” Emma said, her lips curving into a smile. “But you must be patient. We’re almost there.”
Her heart began to beat a little faster, a frantic, joyful rhythm against her ribs. She quickened her pace, pulling Amélie along in her wake. The duchesse stumbled slightly. “Gently, chérie. You forget I am navigating this odorous labyrinth without the benefit of my eyes.”
“Forgive me,” Emma murmured, slowing just enough to be respectable. Ahead of them loomed their destination: a ship house larger than the others, its great wooden doors slightly ajar, a warm, golden light spilling from within. The sounds of hammering and shouting faded, replaced by the more intimate sounds of the sea itself—the rhythmic wash of water against the pilings, the cry of gulls circling overhead.
Emma guided Amélie through the opening and into the vast, cavernous space. The air inside was different, cleaner, smelling of sawdust, varnish, and the clean, sharp scent of new rope. She led Amélie to the center of the echoing building, positioning her carefully, turning her shoulders so she would face the proper direction.
“Are you ready?” Emma whispered, her hands moving to the silk knot at the back of Amélie’s head.
Amélie’s hands came up to rest on Emma’s arms. Her body was strung with anticipation. “I am either about to be profoundly impressed or profoundly disappointed,” Amélie declared. “There is rarely an in-between with you, is there?”
Emma’s fingers worked the knot free. “I hope this is the former.” She took a step back, the cool silk sliding through her fingers. She held her breath.
