Page 55 of A Foolish Flirtation

“As a matter of fact, he was not home when I called. Instead, I spoke to his able partner in crime. To dear Clara, the wife of his bosom.”

Emmie gave a faint gasp. “You met her?”

“I did. I gave her a false name, of course, I thought it best to keep things discreet.” His gaze seemed to dare Emmie to question him further. When she lowered her eyes, he carried on thoughtfully. “Clara had quite an eye to the main chance, if I am not mistaken. I suspect she might be the brains of their union. She would not hand over your letters until I flashed the ring. Then she forked them over alright. Slipped your ring right onto her finger.”

Emmie flinched slightly and Jeremy stopped talking. In truth, it had not even occurred to her to demand the return of her letters. The idea of Humphrey doing anything dastardly with them still seemed ludicrous, despite everything she now knew.

Would Clara have perused her letters too? she wondered with faint horror. Would she and Humphrey have laughed at them together, thinking her their dupe? She felt slightly queasy at the idea. She suspected they would have been a dull read, filled as they were with her daily worries and money-saving schemes.

In the novel she and Pinky had recently sat up till midnight reading, the heroine had written her letters to her lover in either storms of ecstasy or of despair. The hero had kissed the pages on receiving them and clutched them to his breast. Humphrey’s and her letters had been quite a different sort of correspondence.

“You haven’t read them, have you?” she heard herself ask with sudden misgiving.

“Why, Ballentine! I have been raised a gentleman,” he reproached her. “How could you dream of asking me such a thing?”

She eyed him suspiciously while he pretended not to notice. “Where are they?” she asked awkwardly. “You have put them somewhere safe?”

“Of course, I packed them in my trunk, but they’re in a locked drawer in my room now. I will return them to you whenever you want.” He hesitated, then asked, “If I had written you letters, Ballentine, would you have preserved them?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “My lord, we both know you never so much as scrawled me a note.” Good grief, how could she allow her voice to sound so stupidly wistful? If she was not careful, he would guess everything, including that she still had all those old dance cards bearing his bold signature. “I think you are romanticizing our past somewhat,” she said with an awkward laugh.

He did not say anything for a minute, just released her hand. “Would you prefer that I did not?” he asked in an offhand voice. “If you’re finding it tiresome, I could always dispense with the fond reminiscences.”

Emmie could not speak for a moment. She felt suddenly out of her depth, as though she had strayed into dangerous waters. “I could hardly ask that of you,” she said hesitantly, “not when the very reason you married me was to reassure your son on that score.”

“But you would, if you could?” he asked in a tense voice.

Was he annoyed? She knew he enjoyed alluding to their ridiculous past together. It was all a great joke to him. She lifted her chin. “Nothing so dramatic.” She hesitated. “Though, to tell the truth, I would consider it a great favor if you no longer alluded to the Hawfords’ ball.” The worse night of my life, she thought but did not voice.

He went very still and for one horrible moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he shrugged. “Nothing could be simpler, Emmeline,” he said succinctly. “Consider it forgotten. I won’t raise it again.” He smiled but somehow it was not remotely reassuring. She looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. He quirked a brow at her. “Come, we have much to do this morning, and you have not yet breakfasted.”

“Have you breakfasted?” she asked in surprise. He surely had not ventured downstairs in that elaborate dressing gown, had he? She had a lurking suspicion he was naked beneath it. She could see not the smallest hint of a nightshirt poking out of it.

“I never eat breakfast,” he said dismissively, leading the way out of the fancy sitting room. He did not offer her his hand and she did not quite have the nerve to reach for it this time. Instead, she followed him back to her bedroom, devoutly hoping this was the last time any mention of that wretched night would sour things between them.

On reaching her room, they found Teddy loitering outside the door. “There you are,” he exclaimed, sounding aggrieved. “I knocked and knocked but could not make myself heard.”

“That is because we were not in there,” his father explained, placing a hand on his curly head. “I was just showing your stepmother her rooms.”

Hearing a step in the corridor, all three of them turned to see a neat maid approaching, carrying a loaded tray. “Ah, here is Lottie with your breakfast,” Jeremy said.

Teddy turned to Emmie immediately. “Can I take breakfast with you, Mama?” he asked, plucking at her sleeve.

“Of course,” she answered, once she had recovered from the surprise of being addressed thus. She opened the door to let him dart inside.

“You may regret that,” Jeremy said dryly. “He’ll talk your ear off and make lots of crumbs.”

“I don’t mind, I have previously breakfasted with Master Teddy and remain undaunted,” she said, throwing the door open wider for the maid Lottie to pass through.

“Will you take your breakfast in bed or at that funny floor table, milady?” the maid asked hesitating on the threshold.

“On the table!” Teddy clamored, and peering into the doorway, Emmie saw he had already seated himself there upon one of the cushions.

“The low table will be fine,” Emmie answered. “Thank you, Lottie.” She turned to Jeremy. “Are you not coming in?” she asked, a faint challenge in her voice.

“I don’t eat breakfast,” he repeated, though she noticed he loitered still outside her door.

“For the company, then,” she suggested. He shook his head but did not walk away. “Have it your own way,” she said lightly, then turned and walked into her new bedroom, swallowing down her disappointment.