Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris. Amanda McCabe

Cadogan Square. ‘Working, no doubt.’

      Mary tsked again as she swirled Emily’s hair into an elaborate coil at the nape of her neck and secured it with tortoiseshell combs. She handed Emily a pair of aquamarine earrings. ‘You both work much too hard.’

      ‘What else is there to do?’ Emily murmured as she slid the jewels on to her earlobes. She thought of what her friends did: Alex with her charity work in Paris as she helped Malcolm run his stores, and Diana writing her magazine articles in Vienna, where she hosted diplomatic receptions for her husband Will. They were busy all the time, too, doing useful things. Emily had to do the same. One day, her work would no longer be hers to do and she would have to find something new. She rather longed for what Diana and Alex had, but such longings did no good. Work was what she had.

      Mary frowned disapprovingly, making Emily laugh. Mary had been with the Fortescue household for years, starting as a tweeny when Emily’s mother was still alive, and Emily knew she had opinions about how they should run their lives. Mary always thought Emily should follow her friends’ examples and marry. Emily knew her father felt the same way, though he rarely said so. He would love to see her settled with a good husband, a son-in-law to help carry on his work.

      But Emily knew that was impossible. After Gregory Hamilton and his cold hands on that terrace, she couldn’t face intimacy with another man—except for Chris Blakely, who was impossible for entirely different reasons. And she could never give up her work.

      ‘For now, I suppose, Miss Emily,’ Mary said. She helped Emily out of her brocade dressing gown and into her dinner dress. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

      Emily reached for her gloves. ‘Not now, Mary, thank you. After dinner, I’ll need to change into a tweed suit, though, something sturdy. I’ll be off to the meeting of the Women’s Franchise League.’

      * * *

      By the time Emily hurried downstairs, her father was waiting in the drawing room, a pre-dinner sherry in hand, reading through the day’s newspapers. The financial pages, no doubt, Emily thought as she crossed the room to kiss his cheek. After a day visiting suppliers, checking accounts and lunching with clients, Albert Fortescue liked to know what his rivals were doing.

      Emily glanced over her father’s shoulder as the butler handed her a cut-crystal glass of the ruby-red liquor. She saw an advertisement, a full half-page, for Gordston’s Department Stores of Paris, London and now Brighton.

      ‘I’m very glad to see Gordston’s is doing so well,’ she said. ‘I see he is carrying the latest hats from Madame Fronde’s! Anything about the expansion of the Paris store?’

      ‘Not here, but I was looking over the café accounts; we are at beyond capacity there every day. It was an excellent idea of yours to go into such a venture with Mr Gordston, Emily. We will be opening one in the London store any time now, I am sure.’

      Emily gave a satisfied smile, remembering the hard work of setting up the elegant café in the Paris store. ‘I am certainly glad to hear it. It was a stroke of genius on our parts, I must say, for both us and Malcolm. Ladies can shop even longer if they’re properly fortified for the day. Not to mention having a place to meet their friends for a cosy chat, without you men and your dreadful cigars stinking it all to bits.’

      Her father laughed and folded his newspapers as he sat back in his armchair. Emily was a bit worried he was looking thinner than usual, his moustache showing traces of silver in the chestnut, and she wondered if Mary was right that work was not everything. Maybe her father could use a holiday, to Cannes or Portofino, some place warm. She did worry about his health and she knew that this caused many of his worries for her, for who would take care of her one day.

      ‘It was a brilliant idea,’ he said. ‘Cafés in department stores, it’s sure to catch on. In fact, that is something of what I wanted to talk to you about, my dear.’

      ‘The cafés?’

      ‘Paris. I had a note from Mr Gordston asking if we could have a meeting soon, to talk about the possible expansion.’

      ‘Really? I thought the Gordstons were not in the city now. My last letter from Alex was from their country chateau outside Versailles.’ She smiled to think of Alex and how happy she was now with her department-store millionaire husband, adored and pampered, just as she deserved. Emily rather envied her.

      ‘Yes, it seems they don’t plan to make it back to England any time very soon and I am so caught up in that business with the new spice company out of Madras. I was thinking you could go to Paris in my place. You did such a grand job last year.’

      Go back to Paris? Where she’d last seen Chris? Last did such a foolish thing and kissed him in the maze at Lady Rippon’s garden party? Emily turned away as she felt her cheeks turn hot.

      Her first instinct was to say no. Paris had such an intoxicating effect on her. But Gordston’s business was very important. And she had heard that Chris was still gadding about the Continent somewhere, doing who knew what. Perhaps he was in Austria with Will and Diana. She would surely not even see him in Paris again.

      The butler announced dinner before she could answer and she took her father’s arm to make their way towards the dining room. She glimpsed her mother’s portrait, as she did every night, hanging near the doorway. Maude Fortescue smiled down at her husband and daughter serenely, always young, always perfect. How Emily wished she could ask her advice now!

      But she could not. She never could. Growing up without a mother had made her keep her own counsel, find her advice in books and from her friends. That couldn’t change now. But Alex and Diana’s marriages, the way they did something different from most of the women in their world, made her wonder if there could be a way for her, too. Probably not. Will and Malcolm were unique husbands.

      The dining room was a grand space, meant for entertaining and impressing business associates. With a long, polished mahogany table lined with blue-and-white-striped satin chairs, the silk-papered walls lined with valuable Old Masters, the sideboard gleaming with silver, it spoke quietly of her father’s success and good taste. But with only herself and her father at dinner, it seemed full of shadows, echoing, empty.

      But two places were arranged at one end of the vast table, a cosy oasis of candlelight glowing on the Wedgwood porcelain, the heavy old silver. Their own cosy world, made just for themselves. What would she do one day when there was only one place laid at her table?

      ‘How lovely it is to get to spend the evening with my beautiful daughter,’ her father said as the footman ladled out the salmon bisque. ‘It is much too rare. You’ve become quite the social butterfly lately!’

      Emily laughed. Parties were one way to outrun herself, to be sure. ‘You are the one who always taught me the value of connections, Father. I’m finding future customers wherever I go. You are no slouch in that direction, either. Were you not at the Criterion with Lady Musgrave’s party last week? I am sure I read about it in the paper.’

      Albert’s cheeks flushed just a bit above his silvering whiskers and Emily wondered if there was more to the contact with Lady Musgrave than a visit to the theatre and a restaurant. She certainly was a handsome lady, widowed and energetic and cultured. Maybe that was the sort of rest her father needed? A new companion? Where would Emily’s place be, then? Yet she would love her father to find a friend.

      ‘You are quite right, my dear,’ he said. ‘Connections are all. And Lady Musgrave does serve the best wine in town, her cellar is beyond excellent. I should see about selling her a few cases.’

      Emily laughed. ‘See? Always working. But, yes, it is very nice to have a dinner to ourselves.’

      The footman brought in the fish course, a trout in lemon sauce. ‘Perhaps a hand of piquet after?’

      ‘I have to go out after dinner.’

      Her father chuckled. ‘Another dance?’

      ‘Not at all. A meeting of the Women’s Franchise League.’

      His