Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

and he was sorely in need of not only soap and water but clean linen and even a razor.

      He should have stopped at an inn along the way from Shoreham-by-Sea and made himself more presentable, but he’d believed time was of the essence, that news of the duke’s demise—as Lady Emmaline had termed it—must be brought to his estate as quickly as possible.

      Still, it wouldn’t hurt to just step back inside the room for a moment, to assure himself that the woman was still as bravely stoic as she’d been since first hearing of her now vastly altered family situation.

      Giving in to his curiosity, if that was the proper term for it, he opened the door only slightly and peered toward the couches set in the middle of the large room.

      Lady Emmaline was no longer seated on one of the couches.

      John stepped fully inside, casting his gaze around the room, only to discover that it was empty of all but its furnishings.

      Where could she have gone? A quick glance toward the French doors told him that the rain was still coming down hard, so she wouldn’t have gone back outside into the gardens.

      Then he noticed another door in the far right-hand corner of the room, and he approached it quietly, to see that it was slightly ajar.

      “Lady Emmaline?”

      “Yes. One moment.”

      He stepped back from the doorway and she joined him in a few moments, as promised, a new look of determination on her beautiful face.

      “How do I best get a message to Paris?” she asked him without preamble. “Or at least to France. I think Rafe’s in France.”

      “Rafe. Your nephew?”

      Lady Emmaline nodded. “Yes, my nephew. He has to come home, doesn’t he? Ashurst Hall cannot be without its master.”

      “You should not be alone here, no. I would suggest a personal courier, ma’am. Perhaps a former soldier? A Bow Street Runner? It’s an orderly turmoil now that Bonaparte has retreated to Paris, but it is still turmoil, and will be until the man officially abdicates.”

      She looked up at him, her eyes fearful. “Is Rafe in any danger?”

      “Hopefully not. But as I said, Bonaparte is still in Paris, and one can never consider the man as being entirely toothless.”

      “Oh, dear,” she said as she turned and stepped back into the room she’d just left. She crossed to a small table, the top of which was more than completely covered by what looked to be an open Bible. “I want Rafe to be safe. There’s no question of that. But there is more than just Rafe’s safety that is at stake now.”

      John walked over to the table and looked down at the writing on the inside of the back cover of the Bible. “The next in line after your nephew is a real rotter?” he asked, hoping to make her smile.

      “Hardly. The next in line after Rafe is nobody. I was certain that is the case, but felt it necessary to check my conclusion by looking at our family tree in the Bible. And there is nobody. The titles, these lands, this estate and others, they would all revert to the Crown. That can’t happen, it simply cannot. Someone must be sent to find him, immediately, and bring him back here.” She laid both her hands on his forearm and looked up into his face. “Please, Captain Alastair. Help me.”

      “I will. I promise.” He didn’t know how he would help, but if she’d asked him to move a mountain he would have agreed to that chore, as well. How could he deny this woman anything when she looked at him with those soulful brown eyes?

       CHAPTER THREE

      EMMALINE SURREPTITIOUSLY TURNED her head toward her left shoulder and sniffed. Maryanne, her maid, had sworn to her that the black gown did not smell of camphor after being packed away in the attics these past half dozen years or more, since her father’s death, but Emmaline was still not convinced.

      What she was convinced of, however, was that the gown, never a favorite, was woefully out of fashion. According to her sister-in-law, Helen, it had been out of fashion the moment it had been stitched up by the seamstress in the village, as anyone with any sense knew there was no hope of cleverness to be found in Mrs. Watley’s hamlike fingers. To Emmaline, that had meant that Mrs. Watley had flatly refused to lower Helen’s bodice another two inches for fear that the deceased would take one look at those exposed bosoms and sit up straight in his coffin.

      The last time Emmaline had worn this gown (the one with the depressingly ordinary neckline) had been during her year of mourning for her father. That grief, although not overwhelming by any means, had been genuine, as it was difficult to fault the twelfth duke for being the man he had been: rough, gruff and fairly oblivious. Summoning up authentic grief for her brother and his sons was still proving problematic, however, and she’d once again felt a fraud as she’d come down to dinner in this gown.

      Emmaline paced the main saloon, unable to settle herself, wondering where she’d summoned the courage—no, the audacity!—to enlist a complete stranger’s assistance in dealing with the repercussions of her brother’s death. But there was something about Captain John Alastair that instilled confidence in him and his ability to, if not make things right for her, at least shepherd her through the next difficult days.

      She closed her eyes and thought about him, and the way he’d looked as he’d approached her out in the gardens. His tall, handsome form so splendid in his impressive uniform, his bicorne hat neatly tucked beneath his arm, the slight shadow of an evening beard on his lean cheeks. He’d looked weary, and more than a little nervous, most probably because he was certain he would momentarily be presented with a wildly hysterical, weeping woman.

      Emmaline walked along behind one of the couches, lightly running her fingertips over its curved back, and then stopped to look up at the portrait of her father that still hung in its place of honor above the fireplace. Yes, she’d wept when the twelfth duke had died. Why couldn’t she seem to weep for the thirteenth duke and his two sons?

      There had to be something unnatural about a woman who would see their deaths as a problem to be solved rather than the tragedy that it was. There had to be something perverse about a woman whose primary occupation since hearing of those three deaths had been to worry for her own future...when she wasn’t peering into every mirror she could find to assure herself she and this horrid gown wouldn’t frighten Captain Alastair when next he saw her.

      “Emmaline?”

      Emmaline turned in time to see Charlotte Seavers racing into the room, tossing her shawl in the general direction of Grayson, who was now wearing a black armband and a suitably stern expression.

      “I just heard the news,” Charlotte said, approaching Emmaline and taking her hands. “Is it true? Harold’s dead?”

      Charlotte, who lived on a small estate that bordered Ashurst Hall, was not only Emmaline’s dearest friend. She had also recently been betrothed to her younger nephew, a fate Emmaline had considered worse than death for that beloved friend. Indeed, for the past month, since Charlotte had become betrothed to Harold and she had learned the circumstances behind that engagement, Emmaline had lost any remaining love she’d harbored for her brother and nephews.

      “All three of them, yes. It’s over, Charlotte. You’re free.”

      “Oh, but I...that is, I shouldn’t...” Charlotte shook her head and sighed. “Surely I’m going to hell, Emmaline. I want to dance a jig!”

      “Oh, thank God,” Emmaline said, pulling Charlotte down on the couch beside her. “You’re the only one who understands how I feel, and I don’t have to pretend with you. We can travel to hell together.”

      “Perhaps not. Lord knows George and Harold and your brother are already there. Perhaps we’ll go somewhere else. Would you like to see Paris, Emmaline?”

      “I know you’re joking, but perhaps we could. It is imperative