Page 9 of A Foolish Flirtation

Climbing into bed, she comforted herself that she would just have to bear up through this meeting with his child, and then the ordeal would be over. Lord Faris could ride away to his life of privilege, and she would be left to her own of increasing privation.

Then suddenly, it struck her. She had not thought once of Mr. Hardiman’s letter since Jeremy Vance had crossed the street and knocked on her front door. No, nor of Humphrey. She sucked in a breath. The break from constant money worries would have been more beneficial if it had not been chased away by other uncomfortable recollections. How about I give you something to remember me by, Ballentine? Unbidden, the words sprang into her mind, making her ears burn from memory alone. She ought to have slapped him, not trotted after him like an eager spaniel into that dratted conservatory.

The nerve of him. The absolute nerve! And then to expect her collaboration in hoodwinking his innocent child into believing him entirely blameless? Shameless. Clearly, he had not changed one bit. Oh, she would do it alright. Anything to be rid of the wretched man.

Anything to expunge the sense of shame and embarrassment she felt over that last disastrous night at Lady Hawford’s ball. Maybe this little interlude would help her rewrite her role, even if it was only in her own mind? To recast herself as fellow conspirator, instead of lovesick little fool.

He’s laughing at you; can’t you see that? But Mrs. Laverdale’s warning had come too late. Clasping the pillow to her head, Emmie rolled over and tried to quiet the clamoring memories and block them out of her poor head.

2

Emmie awoke early the next morning, ridiculously early, her stomach knotted with dread. Before she had even opened her eyes, she had remembered who was coming to the house this morning at ten. Viscount Faris. She lay tossing and turning for half an hour and then decided she might as well get up.

She dressed with care in her mauve walking dress, which would be ideal for the park. Then she kept herself busy by going downstairs and preparing a light breakfast for herself and Pinky. Checking the meagre contents of their personal cupboard, she boiled them an egg apiece and toasted the end of their loaf to disguise the fact it was rather stale.

Sadly, the butter dish was empty, and she had been sure they had a scraping of butter left from the previous day. Emmie wondered if the Startrites, the family occupying the third floor, might have helped themselves to the last of it. That was the worst part of sharing a kitchen. Ruefully, Emmie reflected that until three years ago she had truly had no notion about such things as shared kitchens. What a privileged life she had led!

She climbed the stairs now, bearing the heavy tray laden with the tea set and breakfast plates. As she neared the top, Pinky’s small, neat figure appeared there.

“Oh, Emmie!” she exclaimed with dismay. “I was just on my way down. You know it is my turn today. How wickedly indulgent of you to let me sleep in!”

“Nonsense,” Emmie answered briskly. “You know I like to do it.”

Pinky bit her lip. “Was your sleep troubled, dear?”

“Not at all,” Emmie lied smoothly. “Why? Do I still look peaky this morning?”

“Oh no! Of course not!” Pinky murmured, following close on her heels. “You look charming. You always look so pretty in that mauve gown. I remember your father remarking on it one time.”

Emmie was surprised to hear that, remembering her father’s usually critical words about her appearance. Well, Emmie, after all, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. “Did he? I do not recall. I suppose I have had this gown a few years now.” She glanced down, wondering if it looked dated and shabby.

“Oh, I did not mean…” Pinky trailed off awkwardly. “That is, it still looks very smart, I am sure.”

“Your grandmama’s brooch looks nice,” Emmie answered, nodding to Pinky’s lace collar. She always thought the pretty pink cameo looked so much nicer than the ugly jet mourning brooch Pinky habitually wore.

“Oh! Thank you, dear.” Pinky flushed. “I thought as we were walking out with company today, I might wear it.” She hurried after her as Emmie made her way into their parlor and set down the tea things on the tiny table in the corner which the two of them dined upon.

Pinky fetched the napkins and silver from a rather cumbersome corner cabinet which was frankly too large for the current room it found itself in. She would have to sell it, Emmie thought, before they moved again. They really did not need anything so large and ostentatious these days. Especially as most of the silver and all the good china had already been sold.

Pinky was still wearing a worried look on her face as they laid the table. Emmie made a concerted effort to look cheerful. “Well, we have fine weather this morning. Blue skies,” she observed, glancing toward the window as she pulled out her seat. “How fortuitous to have a little sunshine for our walk in the park.”

“Oh yes,” Pinky agreed dutifully as they sat down opposite one another. “Very lucky.”

Emmie held up the plate of toast and extended it toward her. “I’m afraid there is no butter to be had today.”

Pinky helped herself to a slice immediately. “For my part, I sometimes think butter tastes a little rich when paired with an egg yolk,” she insisted. Dear Pinky, Emmie thought with a surge of affection. Whatever would she have done without her? “Oh, this egg is perfect, Emmie. Just as it should be, with a runny yolk and a nice, firm white.”

Emmie smiled. Thus had Pinky praised her when she was a young girl still learning her lessons. She was just lifting toast to her mouth when they heard a knock on the door. Emmie’s heart flew into her mouth. It could not be later than quarter past nine! Her wide eyes met Pinky’s across the table. Surely Viscount Faris would not be so early?

“Miss Ballentine?” It was Florrie at the door.

“Come in,” she answered. They heard the maid’s quick step in the hallway.

“You’ve got a visitor.” Emmie’s racing heart calmed a little when she saw Florrie’s sour expression. There was no excitement there today. Perhaps it was not him?

“Who is it, Florrie?”

“It’s that Mr. Stockton,” the maid sniffed. “And ’e looks a right state! Not fit to be seen in decent company.”