Chapter Twenty-Two

To say that the mood at supper was subdued would be understating the matter. Emilia might even go so far as to call it sullen. Perhaps it was the continued downpour outside that had everyone so dull tonight, but the rain had not marred the merriment last night. She suspected it was the absence of their hostess that was the problem.

Mrs. Baddeley was in bed with a cold and their newest guest — a pleasant young man named Mr. Oliver Browning who was studying medicine — assured everyone that she would be well enough in a day or so. Still, dinner without her chatter and inquiries filling every lull in the conversation, the conversation seemed to be nothing but lulls.

The servants had seated all by rank, the ladies with Sir Anthony and the gentlemen with the empty chair that usually contained Mrs. Baddeley, having no other instructions from the lady herself. It seemed to have displeased more than one person.

As for the ladies, Lady Adele had her customary place on Sir Anthony's right at the head of the table and seemed unperturbed, but Miss Marbury, as the niece of a Duke, was now on his left and seemed very put out about it. Emilia wasn't surprised, considering the way Miss Marbury had so urgently warned her away from being in Sir Anthony's company. What she hadn't said was why.

Obviously, Emilia had no wish to be alone with him anyhow, but that was mostly because she was afraid he would suddenly propose to Prudence Crewe, who she was decidedly not. And though Miss Prudence insisted she put him off, Emilia did not think that should extend to refusing a proposal of marriage in her stead. Still, she had been alone with him before and, though he was a shameless flirt, he didn't seem like enough of a roué that she should fear for her virtue.

Still, Miss Marbury had said nothing of the sort, so perhaps the pair simply disliked each other. While Sir Anthony seemed a jovial host when his aunt was about, without her, he seemed the opposite of jovial. But perhaps he was sulking over the seating arrangements as well. Sir Anthony didn't seem any happier about being near Miss Marbury, tossing her glowering glances between bouts of frowning at his plate and playing with his pile of creamed potatoes.

Emilia was seated next to Lady Adele now, having been knocked down a spot by Miss Marbury. Lady Adele, she'd gathered in her time here, was also very delicate about her food, slowly sipping at her soup spoon and then nibbling at what was on her fork. God, did none of these people know how to eat?

Emilia never let her mood, whatever it might be, sour her appetite. Then again, she hadn't grown up in a world where food was plentiful and there whenever she wanted it. She ate whatever was in front of her while it was hot. Though she did take some pains to slow her fork now, thinking her movements might draw too much attention to her, here at the table where silence was the apparent guest of honor.

Even the chaperons, usually quite chatty with each other and anyone near, seemed unequal to conversation, though they did express some fear that Mrs. Baddeley's cold would overtake the house before, Emilia supposed, they decided to stew silently in their fears.

Emilia glanced at the gentlemen. Lord Swinton and Mr. Browning were both seated on either side of Mrs. Baddely's empty chair, with Mr. Byrne next to the former and Mr. Walford beside the latter. Mr. Walford and Lord Swinton had attempted to converse about their observations of the rain — and it's effects on both stonework and insect life, of course — but with the rest of the table so quiet, they had also become subdued. Mr. Browning, after his reassurances over Mrs. Baddeley's health, had little more to say, though he did seem to look at Mr. Byrne quite a lot. As for Mr. Byrne, he looked at no one, not even her, which she told herself was a relief.

Across from Emilia was Miss Poole, who had politely attempted to engage Mary Hartley in conversation twice, but Mary was more sullen and silent than anyone, actually glaring at her plate and, occasionally, those around her. Emilia tried, and failed, to hold in a smile at the thought that no one was more displeased with the seating arrangements than Mary.

With her place to the left of Miss Poole and to the right of Miss Poole's companion, Mrs. Garvey, also across from Lady Adele's chaperon, Mrs. Fernside, she was the lowest in rank among the young ladies and she knew it. She was neither the relation nor ward of anyone in the nobility. She was gentry, at best, no matter how much money she had... or pretended to have, as the case must be now. Emilia was certain of it.

She might also be pouting that she could not properly display her lowered decolletage for Mr. Byrne, as he was on the same side of the table as she. She'd sidled up to him in the library before supper, holding her fan low and fluttering it, but his eyes only glanced past her. But the seating must be even more galling for her — at this party with the supposed dregs of society — to be the lowliest of all.

Yet she could not summon up any pity. In fact, she felt some measure of glee. Before supper, Mary had caught her on her way downstairs and loudly insisted on walking with her "dear friend, Prudence." She'd then, with the cover of putting her arm through Emilia's, pinched her.

"I suppose you think yourself clever," she'd hissed.

"For what?" Emilia had hissed back, trying to pull her arm away.

"For all that stuff Prudence said," Mary returned, not letting her.

"That's Miss Prudence's cleverness, not mine. I assure you, I've no part in what Miss Prudence does or doesn't say."

"You seemed to enjoy it an awful lot."

Emilia couldn't deny it. With the amount of laughs she'd covered with coughs, she knew Mary would catch on, that or believe she was suffering from some terrible illness.

Wouldn't it be nice if it was the latter? She wouldn't have to put up with her needling now if Mary thought she suffered from some contagious disease or other.

"You're hiding behind her," Mary said, "and quite obviously avoiding being alone with me."

"Then I must be doing a terrible job of it, considering..." She gestured to their joined arms. "Why should you wish to be alone with me anyhow?"

"You just can't stand it, can you," Mary said with a rather cruel laugh, "being with me? But someone has to remind you."

Emilia was tempted to say, "Bein' with you? Yes, it's unbearable." But she didn't. "Remind me of what?" she asked instead, even though she knew well that she wouldn't like the answer,

"I know who you truly are."

"Aye, that you do," Emilia said, feigning disinterest. "And I thought you wanted to be part of this... farce. If you've changed your mind, then take it up with Miss Prudence, not me."

"I'm not talking about this little lark you two cooked up. I'm talking about your little airs, speaking like your betters, claiming to know fashion, putting on that you're a lady's maid."

"I am a—"

"You're a scullery maid, and a pitiful one at that. How long did you even last at Hartley Hall?"

"Five years. Longer than any of your lady's maids," Emilia said, finally pulling her arm free at the bottom of the staircase. She turned back, unable to stop herself. "How many have you gone through now? I don't actually care to know and even I've heard it's more than half a dozen in less than six—"

"Their incompetence has nothing to do with yours," Mary seethed.

"I heard one now works for a duchess, so perhaps their incompetence is not the problem. Rather, their previous employers." Emilia walked away faster then so that, whatever Mary had to say, she wouldn't be subjected to hearing it. She was quite proud of having had the last word, but it didn't stop her from feeling wretched that Mary, after all these years, still had the power to make her feel like the lowliest person to ever live.

After all that, seeing Mary Hartley ranked only just above the chaperons was satisfying indeed. Mary might get snide with Miss Prudence or Miss Marbury, but apparently that was not enough to satisfy her. She needed to feel above someone and Emilia, now tossed into her company, was probably like a steak to a hungry dog.

Dog. Mopsy. Evie would be bringing him to her tonight and the thought of his sweet, fluffy face was a balm to her soul. It made her anger nearly disappear.

"I say, Miss Crewe..."

She wasn't sure what sort of activities Sir Anthony had planned for after supper, and she obviously hoped it wasn't dancing after last night's debacle, but she also hoped it didn't last too long. Perhaps she might relieve whatever kitchen staff was walking Mopsy for his nightly business and do so herself.

"Miss Crewe?"

She dreaded the idea of Mary finding ways to get her alone again. She couldn't even enjoy the sorbet now being served, wondering just what nasty things she might whisper now. Perhaps she could claim a headache and sneak to bed before...

"Miss Crewe?"

Dear God, that was her — at least according to all but one person at this table. She glanced up to find Mr. Browning had been trying to get her attention. "I must have been lost in thought," she said. "Forgive me."

"It is you who must forgive me," he said, laughing slightly.

She tilted her head, truly lost now.

"Er... for not saying, when we were first introduced, that I've quite recently made the acquaintance of your brother and his friend."

Emilia hid a slight shudder of dread with a laugh. "Oh?" She affected an interested smile. "Here, I thought they might have run out of parties by now." She'd actually quite forgotten that Ernest Crewe and that rapscallion Lord Stanborough were still in the area. God, what if they...

"Oh, no. Not this time of year," he said, slightly more relaxed now. "The parties can go for days on end."

"Well, I certainly hope he has no thought of joining this party." She let out another quite awkward laugh. "I see my brother quite enough at home."

"Oh, is that so?" Mary was suddenly interested in the conversation. She met Emilia's eyes, tilting her head with a smug smile. "Well, I hope he does join us."

God, that was all she needed to make this supposed lark even worse.

"I highly doubt that he will." Browning laughed. "Mr. Crewe certainly has his opinions on house parties involving..." He colored again. "...which I don't share. I'm quite happy to have been invited," he assured the table at large. "In fact, Mr. Crewe was the reason I knew that... that this party was even here when I found myself stranded. So I suppose I owe him a great debt."

"So that's how you found us," Mr. Byrne said sharply. It was rather startling, considering it was the first time he'd spoken since they'd been seated. In fact, he hadn't spoken before supper either, that she recalled. "How convenient," he went on, "that you just happened to become stranded outside this very party."

Emilia stared between them, confused by the tight, clipped tone of Mr. Byrne's voice.

Mr. Browning, however, answered back amicably, even as he glanced down, his face reddening again. "I suppose I could have kept driving on, but the idea of coming in for a bit of warmth was too tempting."

"Driving on?" Sir Anthony scoffed, his usual geniality making a return. "What nonsense. This young man was attempting to drive all the way back to Hardwick in a curricle of all things. I had to save him from his folly."

"I'm quite grateful for it," Mr. Browning said.

"It is I who should be grateful." Sir Anthony lifted his glass. "You've evened out the numbers."

"Still, this is much better than a lonely fortnight at Hardwick."

"Hardwick?" Mary suddenly seemed interested again. "I know that name."

"Tis my family's seat."

"His father is the Earl of Hadingley," Mr. Byrne supplied, still with that clipped tone. "Such an illustrious family. I only wish more people knew all about them and their deeds."

Emilia frowned at him, not that he saw, wondering why he seemed to be picking at this nice young man with his pleasant, open countenance and his rather sweet tendency to blush. It put her in mind of Mary needling her, which might be unfair, but her opinion of Mr. Byrne had soured so much today that she shouldn't be surprised if he reminded her of Mary.

"I am certainly glad you have joined our party, Mr. Browning," Emilia said warmly, noting that Mr. Byrne was finally looking at her now.

"Yes, as am I, Mr. Browning," Mary reiterated, quite forgetting to torture Emilia. She suspected Mr. Byrne's use of the word "illustrious" had put her on a different tack. She was now leaning forward, perhaps to display her decolletage for her new quarry, staring at poor Mr. Browning like a cat eyeing a canary.

"Aye. What a merry party we are," Sir Anthony said, standing. "But there is more merriment yet to come if you will all follow me to the drawing room."

Though Emilia was grateful that the whole party would be together, lessening the chances of Mary subjecting her to her tender mercies, it did make it harder to beg off with a headache, with everyone talking at once.

The ladies were whispering curiously about what form this merriment would take. Some of the men were hoping they could still partake of their brandy and cigars. Mary was loudly lamenting that she hadn't brought her harp down as surely her music would soothe them all... Not that she would ever say so herself, but several people had likened her playing to experiencing Heaven itself. And who was she to gainsay them? Perhaps it should be fetched so that...

Happily, Sir Anthony hopped up on an ottoman and cleared his throat loudly, silencing them all. "Now, I'm certain dear Aunt Dotty — Mrs. Baddeley, that is — had many delightful parlor games planned for us all, but I have no such plans. What I do have is this house that, despite these last days, has remained largely unexplored."

There were some murmurs at that, some excited, some subdued, some loudly disappointed. Or was that just Mary?

"So I shall not be needing my harp, after all?" She sighed loudly. "Thank goodness. I am forever asked to play, even when I certainly don't wish to."

"Then you shall not," Sir Anthony said happily, waving her off. "Anyhow, there are certain doors you shall find locked. But everything else is free to be explored. I suggest we go in pairs, so..."

Lady Adele and Miss Poole quickly linked arms and ran off, giggling and whispering in French. The only words Emilia caught was "les cuisines" before they disappeared.

Mrs. Garvey and Mrs. Fernside claimed the rain was wreaking havoc on their joints and would rather seek their beds and leave the young people to such amusements, considering their charges were in each others' company.

Mr. Walford and Lord Swinton left soon after, both animatedly talking of inspecting the cellars.

Mary seemed to be looking about for Mr. Byrne...or Mr. Browning possibly, but neither were in sight.

Emilia caught Miss Marbury's eye and they began to move toward each other, but both stilled as Mary snapped her fingers loudly.

"Cecilia? Do you expect me to brave a strange place alone?"

"Of course not." Miss Marbury sighed and linked her arm with Mary's, tossing Emilia an apologetic glance.

That left Emilia with Sir Anthony. Dash it!

"I assure you, this place is not so strange, at least not with me as your guide. And I've had the servants light up most of the hidden places. You can ask me all the questions you like and I..." He chuckled. "I have but one question to ask." He bent an elbow towards her. "Shall we?"

She folded her hands before her, hoping she looked demure. "Surely I need no such attention. I've seen so much already? Shouldn't you take Mr. Browning? He is our newest addition, after all." She pointed toward the French doors and the pouring rain and emptiness beyond. "I think he's on the patio! Oh, Mr. Browning!"

Sir Anthony turned, then, and she wasted no time making her escape. Though she did falter in the front hall. Surely, going up the long staircase would gain her nothing but him spotting her. So she rushed down the hall, aiming for the servants' stairs, but then she heard him behind her.

"Miss Crewe? Where have you got off to?"

He sounded far enough away, but still she panicked and veered toward the first room she saw. It contained a billiard table, a bullseye with darts, and little else, certainly no way out... until she spotted a crack in the wall and the woodwork. There were two of them, actually, and another along the top. Could it be a hidden door? Old places like this had all kinds of hidden nooks and passages.

She hastily grappled with it, her fingers digging in the cracks, then finally pushed at it in her frustration. To her surprise, it sprang back slightly. She pulled it wide enough to put herself on the other side, quickly yanking at it until there was so little light from the cracks that it must be closed... or close enough, she hoped.

She put her ear to the crack and waited. Sure enough, she heard his voice.

"Miss Crewe? Er... Prudence?" He was getting closer.

She dared not breathe as Sir Anthony might hear her and, considering he knew this house best of all, he might pull open this hidden door regardless. She supposed, if that happened, she would pretend it was all a playful trick. Then perhaps she could play another trick and slip away again.

Then she heard his footsteps fading and his voice calling out, further away now. "Miss Crewe? You shall be lost if you don't take ca..."

She let out a long breath, then drew another in, then coughed a bit. She hadn't had the time to look around yet but, whatever was in this room, it must get little use. She'd cleaned enough attics in her day to recognize the dusty, musty smell of a room that had been long abandoned.

She considered leaving it but, if it was so abandoned, perhaps it might be just the place for her to find some peace and solitude for a bit. She certainly didn't want to venture out until she was certain Sir Anthony was far enough away.

She turned, letting her eyes adjust to the scant light coming in, realizing she was not in a room, but a closet. She could see cobwebs running from the mystery items hanging on the wall to one side, making out some racquets, oars, and croquet mallets.

It was a rather deep closet and there was the jumble at the end of it, items tossed in willy-nilly, no doubt. Among them, she could make out a sled, some dusty blankets, and a crate that was only half full. She turned it over, catching some of the items that scattered with a useless shushing sound.

She caught one as she sat on the upturned crate, squeezing it in her hand. It felt like a rubber ball and she immediately thought of Mopsy. Perhaps tomorrow, if the rain let up, they might play with it.

She put it in her pocket, but even that thought couldn't cheer her as she frowned into the darkness. She didn't even want to hide from Sir Anthony. Avoiding suitors and refusing proposals should not be part of her job!

She froze as the closet flooded with light. Had Sir Anthony come back and caught her? She should have left the minute he walked away. Now she would have to brazen it out and make some excuse for why she was sitting in a dusty closet, of all places.

Except it wasn't Sir Anthony...

************************************

Byrne was glad Tony had suggested exploring the house instead of some tedious parlor game. He knew precisely which part of the house he'd like to explore, though he saw it every night. This day had been bad enough, between the failure in Coton, the blasted walk in the rain and muck, and then his supposed brother showing up. Drinking Mrs. Stern's disgusting concoction hadn't made things any better. He could barely taste supper, which was, he supposed, a blessing. Mrs. Doyle had put brussels sprouts on the menu again, this time disguised in cheese. He'd actually ate one before he realized what it was. He'd pick that bone with her tomorrow.

Tonight, he just wanted to be alone in his room. He would go over his plans again, come up with a new strategy, both for the marsh land and the land he could not buy. Perhaps he could sweeten the deal for those who might be reluctant. God, he didn't know what else he could give. There was already an exorbitant amount of money on the table for all of them. But perhaps it was just fear holding them back. He could offer them work in London or on his next site or buy passage for wherever they wish to go or...

He stilled as he entered the men's hall, seeing that his room was out of the question, what with Oliver Browning standing directly in front of his door... and with Fletcher... embracing! Whose valet was he anyhow?

He couldn't help the frustrated noise and — damn it all — it drew their attention. Browning patted Fletcher's arm and started for him. He shook his head and rushed back down the stairs. It was bad enough the gadfly had tricked Tony into inviting him to stay. He would not be subjected to talking to him.

He was, despite his exhaustion, quite a lot faster than Browning. He rounded the bottom of the stairs and started for the library, thinking he might lock the door and have a smoke alone. Unfortunately, Miss Hartley and Miss Marbury were exiting the room and the former seemed quite keen on talking to him.

"Why Mr. Byrne. I was hoping someone might protect me on this—"

"No. Pardon me. I have other matters to..." He said no more , rushing away until he found himself in the billiards room. There was no way out. He had a good mind to poke himself in the eye with a cue, as Tony had done earlier. That was one way to escape. But Miss Hartley would probably coo over his injury and insist on nursing him. He'd already put up with her very unsubtle flirting before supper which, despite him giving her only abrupt responses, had not abated.

He heard her getting closer, saying something to her friend about which way he'd gone. Then he heard Browning asking them about his whereabouts. There was nothing for it. He dove for the closet hidden in the wall, pushing it so it opened and quickly getting himself on the other side of it.

Hopefully, they wouldn't find it. He only knew about it because Tony pointed it out. "Nothing but mice and dust and old broken racquets and playthings in there. Funny that, considering it used to be where the monks hid their valuables."

Byrne pulled it closed, trying to hold his breath. But even inhaling had him tempted to sneeze. Oh, God! He was going to. And they would hear it. He felt his breath drawing sharply in, despite his efforts to control it when suddenly a bit of cloth was slapped over his mouth and, despite his alarm, he sneezed into it, the sound thankfully muffled.

He turned, not sure if he wanted to thank or scold the person behind him, but he couldn't do either with the hand now covering his mouth.

"Shhh! I can hear them coming," she whispered, so lowly he probably only heard it because she was standing so close.

It was Miss Crewe. He could barely see her, but he... Well, it was a bit embarrassing to admit, but he knew her scent. It was that warm, rosy scent that he'd only caught when she was close, it was so faint. But now, with her hand over his mouth and her body so close that there was no more than an inch between them, he felt as if he might happily drown in it.

Byrne reminded himself that Miss Crewe was Tony's quarry, that marrying her would gain him nothing as far as prestige or even notoriety. He was not supposed to be thinking of Miss Crewe, let alone nearly pressing up against her in a closet, but what choice did he have now? He couldn't very well leave, not when he heard three voices outside the door.

He pulled her hand away from his mouth, yet kept it in his, breathing, "I will be silent."

***********************

Emilia supposed there were worse people to be trapped in a closet with — for instance, the people outside the door.

Well, one of them. She had no ill opinion of Miss Marbury or Mr. Browning, who she could also hear, but while they were with Mary Hartley, she'd just as soon avoid them as well.

It was rather unfortunate that Mr. Byrne was here, actually, considering Mary was looking for him in particular. She might get curious and find the door and, though Byrne seemed to be her object, she'd likely be just as happy to find and torture Emilia as well.

He took her hand away from his mouth, promising softly to be silent. He didn't release it, however. And though she thought of pulling it away, there was too much risk of her her knocking into the oddments crowding the closet. So she stayed as still as she could, barely breathing as she waited for them to leave.

"...yes, I also thought I'd seen him going this way," Mr. Browning was saying, "but this is quite a tricky house... or abbey."

"Yes, isn't that fascinating? I bet there are all kinds of interesting rooms here." That one must be Miss Marbury. It was too pleasant to be Mary.

"I'd wager it's not a tenth as fascinating as Hardwick." Yes. That one was Mary. She'd know that strident, disdainful tone anywhere. "How I should love to see it. I hear it is not far from here."

"I confess, I don't find it very fascinating, but I suppose one's home is always less fascinating to oneself. This is a much merrier place than Hardwick, I assure you. I happily plan to be here for the duration of this party."

She heard Mr. Byrne let out something that sounded like a growl and quickly slapped her other hand over his mouth. He pulled that one away as well, hissing, "I was clearing my throat."

"Couldn't you try to resist doin' that until after they've gone?" she whispered.

"...could have sworn I saw Mr. Byrne come this way," Mary was saying.

"Yes, I was also searching for Mr. Byrne. But it seems he has eluded us," Mr. Browning said on an awkward laugh. "Well, I shall be going, Miss... Forgive me. I am a late addition to this party and I've met so many people tonight. I can't recall—"

"Oh, think nothing of it," Mary tittered.

That was a surprise. Mary might usually eviscerate someone for not remembering her name, considering she fancied herself the most important person in any room.

"I shall forgive you as I barely had a moment to make your acquaintance before supper, Mr. Browning. But I understand you are the son of the Earl of Hadingley?"

"Indeed I am. Well... one of them."

"How hard that must be, to inherit such a large part of Cambridgeshire. You must have so much pressing upon you," Mary cooed.

"Well, I confess it doesn't press upon me at all," he laughed, "I'm the second son, you see."

There was silence for a moment before Mary spoke again.

"Ah! Well... It's nice to have met you," she said, her voice much cooler now.

"Likewise. And you, Miss Marbury."

"A pleasure," Miss Marbury's gentler voice replied.

Emilia held in a laugh. There was an end to that romance. Mary wasn't likely to waste her efforts conversing with anything less than an heir. She heard footsteps leaving and hoped it was Mary beating a hasty retreat. But she wasn't that lucky as she heard Mary speak next.

"Why didn't you tell me he was a second son?"

"I didn't know it myself," Miss Marbury said. "I don't know the family well. I only said that Hardwick is a grand estate."

"Yes, but it's not to be his, is it?"

"Still, he seems a very jolly young man."

"What he is is fat. So yes, I suppose he is jolly. Perhaps you should marry him. He's not likely to cast you off, considering you're nearly as... jolly."

"Mary..."

"I'm only saying it as your friend. If you would but follow my diet and regimen, you would have more choices than the Mr. Brownings of the world."

Emilia rather wanted to open the door now, if only for Miss Marbury's sake. She didn't deserve to be subjected to such a friendship as this.

"I hardly know Mr. Browning," Miss Marbury protested, "so I have no notion of choosing him or not. I think I've explored enough tonight. If you'll excuse me..."

Yes, leave her. That was almost as good as giving her what for.

"Oh, Cecilia! Don't be so sour. While we're here, we might as well play."

"No," Emilia breathed.

Mr. Byrne then released one of her hands, putting his now free hand over her mouth. He was still clutching her other hand and, improper as it was, she was a bit more concerned about what was going on outside. Cecilia had agreed to a game and now... God only knew when they would get out of this closet!

He moved around her, her hand still in his and gestured to the overturned crate deeper in the closet. She wasn't accustomed to chivalry, but she took her seat again, cringing as he worked on silently emptying a bucket before turning it over for himself. It was awfully close to her seat, but she supposed that was for the best as he spoke next.

"So... who are you hiding from?" he asked softly.

"Who are you hidin' from?" she countered.

He hesitated before he said, "Miss Hartley, of course. No one wants to be flirted with against their will."

Emilia was a bit relieved that he hadn't fallen under Mary's spell. The way Mary had talked, he was enraptured by her. Then again, so was everyone, at least according to Mary. Still, she sighed. "I know the feeling."

"Is that so?" She turned to find him peering at her, her eyes having adjusted to the darkness again. "So you've no interest in Tony?"

"Tony?"

"Sir Anthony, I mean."

She looked down, pursing her lips, not wanting to disparage Sir Anthony to his friend, but... "I have no interest in marriage," she breathed, trying to imagine Prudence Crewe in here answering this same question. "It's a... a prison for women," she whispered vehemently, trying to call Miss Prudence's diatribes to mind. "Once married, women surrender their money and... and their property to men. They are treated like a... a limb of their husband, without will of their own. How should you like such an existence?"

"I suppose I would not," he said lowly. "I know how it feels to be ruled by someone against your will."

Emilia rolled her eyes. "If this is another jibe against the English, it is wasted on me. Not all of us agree with makin' colonies everywhere. I was all for those Americans and their revolution, I'll have you know. And if one of your Irish uprisings had succeeded, I wouldn't have blinked. You'll find most of us have no control over what the monarchy chooses to do. So perhaps we mere citizens not wholly to blame for the state of Ireland."

"I never said you were." He was silent a moment then, perhaps because he could not find an argument against that. She found that rather satisfying.

"Obviously, your first impression of me was colored by my being English," she whispered. "But that doesn't mean I consider myself lofty and above anyone. Perhaps you now know better not to judge—"

"My first impression of you was your legs upended over a trunk with a dog on your chest. Believe me, there was nothing lofty about it. And my second was you falling into a stream, thanks to that same dog. Needless to say—"

"Well, my first impression of you was you threatening the life of the dearest dog in all the—"

"I was quite obviously joking."

"Well, it wasn't funny."

He huffed slightly and she shushed him. "That dearest dog's mere presence," he said in a lower voice, "has started a war amongst the servants. And that's without your maid attempting to lead them in revolt, according to my valet."

"That stodgy old thing? Miss P... Finch," she quickly corrected, "might have some high ideals for the working class, but she's no—"

"And the dog seems to have been disappearing and reappearing at whim. The question is at whose whim."

She wouldn't answer. The deal she'd made with Evie would fix all of it anyway. Mopsy would be with her after the servants had gone to bed and back before they woke up, none the wiser. "Why are you so concerned about Sir Anthony's servants anyhow? Surely none of this is your affair."

"I... I know them quite well. I visit a lot."

"Aye, you and all your ladies," she grumbled.

"Pardon me?"

Drat! Why had she said that? "I actually said..." God, what rhymed with ladies? Where was Lady Sanderson when she was needed?

"No, I heard you," he said. "I'm just wondering what you mean by it."

She shrugged. "One hears things."

"Are you saying I'm a rake?" he asked.

"Are you claiming you are not?" She countered. "Most men of your like are."

"What?" he hissed, "Irish?"

"Rich," she hissed back. "And it's fine. And no concern of mine. You're only following the rest of your peers."

"I am nothing like the rest of my peers. Believe me."

"You certainly host a lot of parties for them — disreputable ones, I hear."

"You try to get these little lordlings to a party that's not just a little bit disreputable. And as for my ladies, there is no great number of—"

"I do not wish to know. Your affairs are none of my affair, anyhow." She shrugged again. "I wouldn't care a whit if you hosted every widow and actress in London."

"Well, that's good. Because it's not your affair, but a man with a series of... discreet friendships is not the same as a rake. And your virtue is perfectly safe with me if that's what you're worried about," he finished on a low growl.

"I'm not worried about anything," she whispered back loudly.

"Good, then."

There was silence for a moment as he carefully stood and approached the door, listening for several moments before coming back and taking his bucket seat again.

"Are they finishing?" she asked softly, her anger replaced by hope.

"No, but Miss Hartley thinks Miss Marbury is cheating, so we can guess who's winning."

"Good for her." Miss Marbury deserved to get some of her own back, with the way Mary treated her. "I only hope it's a quick victory."

"So is it Miss Hartley," he prodded, "the one you're hiding from?"

"I told you before that it was Sir Anthony."

He scoffed. "Tony's harmless. You could just complain you have a headache and he'd release you without a fuss."

"Very well. I shall try that next time."

"Better than being stuck in a dusty closet," he grunted. "But I don't think it does you any good, hiding rather than facing him. If you are going to reject him, it would be better for him if you got it over with so he can set his sights elsewhere."

"I'm certain I can handle my own suitors, thank you." But he did have a point. Did she really think she could avoid Sir Anthony catching her alone for the rest of the party? There was a week and a half left. And it would be kinder to discourage him firmly. If his object was to find a wife, he certainly wouldn't be getting it in her, and she highly doubted Prudence would suit him either. Still, it should not be her responsibility. Ideally, Prudence would end this farce and reject her own suitors. She had plenty of experience with it.

"I have an idea," Mr. Byrne said after a moment. "You can leave the closet and claim you were looking for a retiring room."

"After all this time?"

"You can claim it was too dark to find the door."

"That will... make me look like a simpleton," she finished awkwardly.

"You just said you weren't hiding from Miss Hartley, while I certainly am."

"Aye, but... but..."

"Perhaps you can lead them away. Even if you can't, at least one of us will be free. And since you find my company so abhorrent—"

"I never said that." She certainly preferred his company to Mary's.

"You've been cross with me all day."

"I have barely seen you all day." But he was right. She had been cross, annoyed at his flirting with her when he obviously did it with half the women he saw. Then again, was that true or just something she assumed? She'd barely seen him talk to Miss Poole or Lady Adele, nor Miss Marbury so far, though he had been polite. And she was rather gratified she now knew he wasn't flirting with Mary. But what right had she to even think about his flirtations? It wasn't as if she could actually be with him, nor any other man at this party.

"Very well. You've been cross with me since I stepped into this closet," he amended.

"Who wouldn't be cross," she mumbled, "trapped in a closet?"

"All the more reason for you to simply leave. But you won't because you are hiding from Mary Hartley. I understand the desire, but—"

"For the last time," she hissed loudly, "I am not. She is a dear old friend from home."

"Hogwash. You were terrified last night, when the pair out there showed up. And it can't be Miss Marbury. She wouldn't terrify a fly. So it must be Hartley. Not that I blame you. The girl's an absolute harridan. But you started speaking so strangely, saying you're not worth my concern and saying it was nice to know me, as if you were saying goodbye forever."

"That was only because I..." She tried to remember that night and what might have caused her distress besides Mary. "I've a fear of the rain. And it had started pouring and I... I considered leaving, but I changed my mind."

"Did you now?"

"It's silly, I know. I'm quite embarrassed to admit it. As for the bit about your concern," she went on, "I simply did not want anyone troubling themselves about me."

"So it had nothing to do with Miss Hartley?"

"Nothing at all," she whispered, trying for nonchalance, which was quite hard when whispering.

He gestured to the door. "Then leave."

"Well, I cannot because... because..." What would be a good reason? There must be something!

"Hmm?"

"Because when they see a person stumble out of a closet, they will likely want to investigate that closet." Yes. That was a very good one! "And what will they find? That I've been alone with a man in here this entire time! There would be two witnesses to this," she hissed, gesturing between them. "So I'll stay here, unless you're keen on being forced to marry me."

He stiffened, sitting up a bit straighter, staring at her strangely.

There was a sudden shout from outside. She didn't know if it was Miss Marbury celebrating or Miss Hartley fuming, but surely it meant the end was near. She stood and rushed to the door.

Mr. Byrne was close behind her, whispering, "Wait!"

She turned, giving him a withering look that he likely could hardly see. "I wasn't going to rush out. I was simply trying to listen more closely."

"Shh! I think I hear Tony," he said lowly.

"Oh, Lord! Do you think he'll want to play, too?"

"He blackened his eye with a cue today. I think he'll be off billiards for a while."

"Now you shush. We need to hear them." She turned her head slightly and pressed her ear against the crack of the door.

"...just availing ourselves of your lovely billiard table," Mary was simpering, "though you might want to have it looked at. I suspect it leans slightly crooked or Cecilia wouldn't have—"

"Honestly, Mary," Miss Marbury cut in with her softer tones, "if that were so, it would benefited you as well."

"You didn't let me finish," Mary huffed loudly. "I was going to say you wouldn't have had to struggle so to defeat me. I did my best to help you win faster, Dear. Lord knows I don't have endless hours to spend on these silly games." Mary tittered. She really was just awful! "By the by, have you seen Mr. Byrne, Sir Anthony?"

"Er... not since..." He paused a moment. "Not since I just saw him in the library moments ago. Or was it the drawing room? I can't recall, but I think he was asking after you."

Mr. Byrne huffed slightly. "That can't be true."

"Hush!" Still it must have done the trick, as she could hear Mary's footsteps patter away with a quickness. Emilia waited for the other footsteps to join hers. She heard one set for a moment before Sir Anthony spoke...

"Cecilia? A moment?"

"It's Miss Marbury to you," she said, her tone surprisingly harsh. Interesting.

"So it is. Sorry about that." Sir Anthony's tone was sheepish. "I heard Miss Hartley say it and then it just—"

"What do you want?"

"Only to speak a moment. There seems to be some confusion about... er... Well, you seem to... have some wrong impression of..."

Miss Marbury didn't let him finish, which was understandable as he seemed to be taking his time about it. "I really should find Mary and—"

"Why do you hate me?"

Emilia let out a gasp. There was little she loved more than a bit of gossip and, though she'd noticed the strange disdain Cecilia Marbury seemed to harbor when it came to Sir Anthony, while she was so warm and effusive with everyone else, she'd not had time to think much about it under Mary's torture. But at the moment, she had little else to occupy her...

"I never said I hated you," Miss Marbury answered after a spell.

"You don't need to say it," Sir Anthony countered. "You make your contempt perfectly clear. What you don't make clear is why."

"You do not know?" Cecilia laughed, but it was brief and bitter. "Of course not. I'm sure you say such things so often that—"

"Aha! So it's something I said!"

"I really should go and—"

"Just tell me what," Sir Anthony pleaded, "and I shall apologize."

"You think it's so simple." She let out another bitter laugh as her footsteps sounded out.

His quickly followed. "I'd know better if you..." Now they were further from the door. Emilia could only catch odd words like "... you said... I never... ball... railing... rump..." It was nowhere near enough to piece together what they were saying and too quick to even make out who said what.

"Dash it," Emilia hissed.

"What is happening?" Mr. Byrne inquired. "Have they not left yet?"

"No, but they've moved farther away and I can't hear what they're fighting about," she grumbled. "I noted her coolness with him, but have yet to know why. The last I heard was 'rump.'" She tried to listen closer. "Blast. Now they're talking softer, too."

He chuckled softly. "Quite the little gossip, aren't we?"

"It's not gossip." That was a total lie. She was dying of curiosity. "I simply would like to know what he said so I can better inform myself of... of his suitability."

"I thought you were intent on refusing him."

"Well, of course I am, but—" Her words stopped the moment she turned her head back to him.

He was awfully close. The light from the crack was slashing across one side of his face. It made his eyes — well, one of them — look quite dangerous, but in a strangely exciting way. Suddenly, he was even closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. She also felt his hands on her arms, not gripping, but gliding upwards gently, even hesitantly.

It made nerves dance in her stomach, but not in the way it had when she'd been in this position before. She'd been cornered a time or two at Hartley Hall... or more likely ten. She'd slapped away the odd footmen or hallboy throughout her career. She even got away unkissed by two valets and three so-called gentlemen. But now getting away seemed to be the last thing on her mind.

As his lips drew closer, she had the urge to grip him by his lapels and... Well, she should push him away. She hadn't given much thought to where she might be kissed, but she was certain she should have preferred her first experience of such a thing to be someplace other than a dusty closet. But she knew she wouldn't push him away. If anything, if she got her hands on any part of him, she would pull him closer.

She drew in a shaky breath, fisting her hands in her skirt so she did not actually do that.

She couldn't decide if it was sudden or taking ages when he swooped in, his lips meeting hers.

*********************

These two! I had to get them in a dang closet for this to happen.

Once again, I am sorry for the wait, but hey! It was shorter than last time and it's quite long. And with the sad flashbacks done with (saving one), it should be a less rough road for me. They brought up a lot of personal stuff and were a bit hard to get through, but cathartic in a way.

The banter and house party hijinks will be a much fun to write, so the wait between will be much shorter.

If you're curious about Tony and Cecilia, I will just say now that, when this series is over, you might see them in the next. I'm planting seeds for a future harvest.