Page 5 of A Foolish Flirtation

Recollections of her childhood always turned Pinky sentimental. Her parents had had her very late in life and as a consequence, she had lost them both young. “Now, what were we saying?” Pinky asked, having lost the thread of the conversation.

“You were speaking of the den of iniquity that is Tunbridge Wells,” Emmie replied gravely.

“Oh! Oh, dear me, no, I did not mean to imply that Tunbridge Wells was anything less than wholesome. I had a great-uncle who resided there for many years, most happily. My uncle Randolph. I daresay, it was merely a game of cards the rector used to indulge in within the parlor of some gentleman acquaintance,” she reflected. “But you see, Mama always referred to Mr. Anstruther as frequenting ‘gambling hells,’ though whether it was in jest, or out of naivety, I really could not say after such a passage of time.”

Emmie laughed and squeezed her friend’s arm. “I expect she said it in fun,” she said, “to tease your father, the vicar.”

Pinky’s eyes turned misty. “Yes,” she agreed. “They were always so fond of one another, always. Everyone remarked upon it, even my aunt Harriet. To be as devoted after forty years married as you were on your wedding day must be a wonderful thing.”

Emmie tried to imagine how she would feel about Humphrey after forty years. In truth, she had felt surer of him ten years ago than she did now. She sighed. “A feat indeed,” she agreed. They walked the rest of the way in near silence, both lost in their own thoughts, until they reached the peeling green door of number six, where they rented rooms on the second floor.

Florrie, the maid of all work who belonged to their landlady who lived on the ground floor, opened the door at once. “Here you are at last, Miss Ballentine!” she said excitedly, ushering them inside. “Almost thought you’d got lost, you been gone such an age.”

Pinky tutted, for she did not approve of Florrie’s manner, but she did it so faintly that the smart little maid barely noticed. Not that she’d care, for Florrie thought Pinky a poor, drab creature.

“Are we late?” Emmie asked in surprise, reaching for the watch she’d pawned two weeks ago. Her fingers closing on thin air, she turned instead to glance at the grandfather clock stood solidly in the hallway. “It is a little after five, Florrie. We are not so very late.”

“You’ve ’ad a caller, miss, ever such a gent, ’e was,” Florrie gabbled excitedly. “Lovely calling card all edged in gilt and such manners.” She sighed ecstatically.

“Humphrey?” Emmie asked, pausing in the act of removing her hatpin.

“Not ’im!” Florrie burst out in disgust. “This one tips!”

“Perhaps if you presented his calling card that might clear up the confusion,” Pinky suggested mildly.

Florrie regarded Pinky with narrowed eyes a moment, as though imagining some slight. Then, grudgingly, she reached into her apron pocket to retrieve the card. She glanced at it one last time, then sighed, and handed it over.

Viscount Faris, Emmie read in elegant copperplate beneath an elaborately embossed crest. Who the deuce was that? She turned it over to read the elegant scrawl on the back.

Dear Miss Ballentine, I have recently come to Bath, for my son’s convalescence. If it would be convenient for me to call on an old friend one morning this week, I would be grateful for the opportunity to introduce the two of you and renew our acquaintance. J.V.

If anything, Emmie’s bafflement grew. She was sure she had never met a Viscount Faris in her life! “Er, thank you, Florrie,” she murmured, unsure how else to respond, and turned toward the stair.

“What about your answer, then?” Florrie demanded indignantly.

Emmie swung back around. “Did he leave some direction for it?”

Wordlessly, Florrie crossed to the hall window and lifted the lace curtain. Greatly puzzled, Emmie walked over to join her and stood gazing out in growing astonishment. Somehow she and Pinky had entirely failed to notice a luxurious-looking carriage parked on the opposite side of the street.

“Whoever is it, Emmie?” Pinky asked in hushed tones, appearing suddenly at her elbow.

“I hardly know,” Emmie confessed. “If this was one of our novels, Pinky dear, it would be a rich and heretofore unknown uncle, come to—” She broke off her words abruptly as the carriage door swung open, and an elegant figure stepped out.

Emmie gasped, and for a moment, time stood still as she remained frozen, a hand to her throat and her mouth hanging open. Surely, that could not be… Just then, the late afternoon sun appeared from behind a cloud, and its rays struck his impeccably styled hair, making it gleam as gold as a newly minted guinea.

The spell was broken, and she could finally move. “Oh dear,” Emmie quavered, slumping against the wall. She felt quite weak and shaken. “Count Stefano.”

“What?” Pinky gasped, her head whipping around. Emmie wasn’t attending. Instead, she remained where she was, her eyes glued to the immaculate vision unhurriedly crossing the street. He was every bit as devastatingly handsome as she remembered him.

Jeremy Vance had appeared from her past, like some bad fairy she had conjured by foolishly speaking his name aloud. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Her common sense immediately rebelled. This was nothing to do with the fact she had allowed herself to think of him this afternoon! It was just some…horrible coincidence.

Besides, she told herself uneasily, she had not actually spoken his name. She had been speaking of wicked Count Stefano, which was an entirely different thing. The three women watched transfixed as he approached their front steps, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was being avidly observed.

Oh God, Emmie thought, dry-mouthed. All this time, she had told herself he could not possibly be so good-looking. It just wasn’t fair, she thought, her bosom swelling with indignation, that the passage of time had not marred his appearance in any way. If anything, he had grown even more attractive. It was monstrously unjust!

Drawing herself up, she turned to Florrie. “Allow Miss Pinson and myself three minutes to reach our sitting room, and then show him up,” she instructed with as much dignity as she could muster. Florrie nodded fervently as Emmie turned to her friend. “Come along, Pinky dear.”

Pinky made haste to comply, even managing to hold her tongue as they hurried up the stairs to their own rooms. Moving swiftly, they hung their bonnets on their pegs, and set their reticules and gloves down on the rickety side table used for that expressed purpose.