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Tobias made a rough sound in his throat. “Permit me, please.”

He scooped Emily into his arms, and with a sigh, she closed her eyes and pillowed her head against the broad, comforting expanse of his chest. She’d face the humiliation tomorrow. But at this moment, she needed him.

Sweet Jesus, her head hurt.

What am I going to do about Mr. Marlow-Westbrook?

Emily’s perfidy had finally caught up with her.

~*~

Houghtenwick Hall – Grosvenor Square

The next morning – a few minutes past eleven

You’re a coward, Emily Grenville.

Today Emily felt spineless, and she wouldn’t apologize or feel guilty about it, either. That proverb about wisdom being the better part of valor definitely applied in her circumstances.

Her needlework lying idly in her lap, she gazed through the spotless drawing room window to the garden. May had arrived in a gloriously colorful palette and a temperament much more benevolent than April’s.

Emily had skipped her constitutional and sent a note ’round to Tobias begging off their regular morning meeting.

Yes, she had taken the coward’s way.

Fear of having one’s sins exposed rather brought out the least admirable characteristics in a person.

When Emily had not come down for breakfast, Justina had popped into her bedchamber. She’d attributed Emily’s absence in the dining room to the lingering aftermath of the megrim. They’d plagued Emily often enough during Justina’s youth that she was familiar with Emily’s recovery, and Justina had assumed such was the case today.

Hopefully, Tobias would come to the same conclusion.

The plain truth was that Emily was terrified of running into Mr. Marlow-Westbrook on her outing. Instead, she’d planned a day at home, donned one of her older morning gowns—a simple white affair with a crocheted fichu for modesty—and thrown a knitted crimson shawl that had seen better days around her shoulders before venturing to the drawing room.

This morning, Justina and Avery had planned a visit to the milliners with Ophelia, the Duchess of Asherford. Ophelia picked them up in her black lacquered coach, and Baxter had left early for a meeting.

Emily had the house to herself, except for the servants, of course.

After bringing her a tray of tea and toast, Bevels had left her to her own devices.

In truth, her headache had abated during the early morning hours. She’d lain in her wickedly comfortable bed and played through scenario after scenario in her mind of the possible repercussions of her perfidy being revealed.

None ended pleasantly or with her remaining in London.

Precisely where did Mr. Marlow-Westbrook perch in Clement’s family tree?

Emily knew scant few details about her dead husband except that he had been married and fathered three children.

More fool she, for following her heart and not her head.

Had Clement any siblings?

Where was he from? Well, naturally, he was from England, but where exactly?

Were his parents still alive?

When had the bugger tossed aside all decency and morality?

Such details a couple ought to learn about one another before exchanging vows. In hindsight, Emily realized Clement had been rather close-mouthed about many things, which was why she’d been given to speculating he was a spy. Now, she conceded he may have simply been afraid to divulge too much about himself.