Beyond Seduction by Emma Holly Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Holly
mind
cleared and she once again saw the agitated maid, her decision was already firm.
"Yes," she said. "Please lay out the dark-brown habit with the velvet trim."
The maid bobbed a shaky curtsey and withdrew. Merry scarcely noticed. She knew what she had to do, down to the smallest detail, as if she'd been planning it all along.
First, though, she was going to give the best performance of her life. Otherwise, the duchess would not believe she meant to visit Isabel in Wales , where—so Merry would claim—she intended to contemplate the error of her ways. She'd protest and she'd plead, but mostly she'd be shaken. She'd imply she might well marry Ernest Althorp on her return.
Once that ground was laid, she'd give Isabel a stack of letters to mail on her behalf, carefully composed
to demonstrate the progressive weakening of her will. Thankfully, her mother was an incurious correspondent. In her supreme self-absorption, she wouldn't think to ask for details about either her daughter or her supposed hosts. A mention of the weather or some dull specific regarding the earl's assumption of his duties would have her eyes glazing with indifference. Only signs of remorse would catch the duchess's attention, only hints of capitulation. And if her mother should make demands or probe, Isabel could fake Merry's hand well enough to dash an appropriately evasive postscript.
Add to this a trunk full of clothes "for Wales " and her mother would be convinced her daughter was where she said.
Merry knew her friend would love the scheme, if only for the spice it would add to her long, dull days
in mourning black.
Her sole regret was that Ernest, even more than her mother, was sure to believe the lie.
Three
Farnham let Nic sleep till
noon
. At which point he must have lost patience with his master's sloth. The evening before had been bad enough: having to pry him from his bed just to change that broken frame
for the duke of Monmouth. Nic hadn't wanted to go, but he supposed he was glad Farnham forced him, even if he had sat for an hour afterward at the police station, waiting to give a description he sincerely doubted anyone wanted to follow up. London 's bobbies couldn't be bothered investigating crimes that hadn't happened. Nor had they been pleased by his refusal to reveal the victim's name. Why they expected him to, he couldn't guess. They knew as well as he a servant could be dismissed for sillier reasons than having the misfortune to be attacked.
Nic wondered if Farnham would let him sleep if he knew his master had been a hero.
Deciding it wasn't worth finding out, he shaded his eyes as the butler threw open the drapes. Sadly, the precaution was unnecessary. The fog lingered, curling against the windows.
Nic groaned at the gloom that enfolded him at the sight. He hated winter in London . Hanging would be better than waking up to this.
"I've brought coffee," said Farnham, "and the paper."
Nic pushed himself blearily upright. "What? No more letters from my mother?"
Farnham denied this as solemnly as if he didn't know what sarcasm was.
"What about a caller? A young lady on the small side. Fair curly hair. Might have been interested in sitting?" Though Nic didn't really expect the girl to change her mind, Farnham's answer still disappointed.
"No, sir," he said. "But a young man did come by looking for employment."
From the carefully uninflected tone of Farnham's voice, Nic could tell he'd wanted to help. Spit and
polish notwithstanding, his butler was a soft touch.
"Can we use him?" he asked, straightening the covers across his lap.
Farnham settled the tray before he answered. "The gardener is getting on in years, and Mrs. Choate
could keep him busy in the kitchen for the winter."
"Seem likely to steal the plate?"
"No, sir. He was surprisingly well spoken. Must have gone to one of the national schools. He said his parents work
cleared and she once again saw the agitated maid, her decision was already firm.
"Yes," she said. "Please lay out the dark-brown habit with the velvet trim."
The maid bobbed a shaky curtsey and withdrew. Merry scarcely noticed. She knew what she had to do, down to the smallest detail, as if she'd been planning it all along.
First, though, she was going to give the best performance of her life. Otherwise, the duchess would not believe she meant to visit Isabel in Wales , where—so Merry would claim—she intended to contemplate the error of her ways. She'd protest and she'd plead, but mostly she'd be shaken. She'd imply she might well marry Ernest Althorp on her return.
Once that ground was laid, she'd give Isabel a stack of letters to mail on her behalf, carefully composed
to demonstrate the progressive weakening of her will. Thankfully, her mother was an incurious correspondent. In her supreme self-absorption, she wouldn't think to ask for details about either her daughter or her supposed hosts. A mention of the weather or some dull specific regarding the earl's assumption of his duties would have her eyes glazing with indifference. Only signs of remorse would catch the duchess's attention, only hints of capitulation. And if her mother should make demands or probe, Isabel could fake Merry's hand well enough to dash an appropriately evasive postscript.
Add to this a trunk full of clothes "for Wales " and her mother would be convinced her daughter was where she said.
Merry knew her friend would love the scheme, if only for the spice it would add to her long, dull days
in mourning black.
Her sole regret was that Ernest, even more than her mother, was sure to believe the lie.
Three
Farnham let Nic sleep till
noon
. At which point he must have lost patience with his master's sloth. The evening before had been bad enough: having to pry him from his bed just to change that broken frame
for the duke of Monmouth. Nic hadn't wanted to go, but he supposed he was glad Farnham forced him, even if he had sat for an hour afterward at the police station, waiting to give a description he sincerely doubted anyone wanted to follow up. London 's bobbies couldn't be bothered investigating crimes that hadn't happened. Nor had they been pleased by his refusal to reveal the victim's name. Why they expected him to, he couldn't guess. They knew as well as he a servant could be dismissed for sillier reasons than having the misfortune to be attacked.
Nic wondered if Farnham would let him sleep if he knew his master had been a hero.
Deciding it wasn't worth finding out, he shaded his eyes as the butler threw open the drapes. Sadly, the precaution was unnecessary. The fog lingered, curling against the windows.
Nic groaned at the gloom that enfolded him at the sight. He hated winter in London . Hanging would be better than waking up to this.
"I've brought coffee," said Farnham, "and the paper."
Nic pushed himself blearily upright. "What? No more letters from my mother?"
Farnham denied this as solemnly as if he didn't know what sarcasm was.
"What about a caller? A young lady on the small side. Fair curly hair. Might have been interested in sitting?" Though Nic didn't really expect the girl to change her mind, Farnham's answer still disappointed.
"No, sir," he said. "But a young man did come by looking for employment."
From the carefully uninflected tone of Farnham's voice, Nic could tell he'd wanted to help. Spit and
polish notwithstanding, his butler was a soft touch.
"Can we use him?" he asked, straightening the covers across his lap.
Farnham settled the tray before he answered. "The gardener is getting on in years, and Mrs. Choate
could keep him busy in the kitchen for the winter."
"Seem likely to steal the plate?"
"No, sir. He was surprisingly well spoken. Must have gone to one of the national schools. He said his parents work
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