“You are ambitious, Mr. Hartley,” Tante Cristelle said. She did not sound approving.
Mr. Hartley inclined his head to her aunt. He didn’t seem perturbed by the old woman’s disapproval. Emeline found herself reluctantly admiring his self-possession. He was foreign in a way that had nothing to do with being American. The gentlemen of her acquaintance didn’t deal in commerce, let alone discuss it so bluntly with a lady. It was rather interesting to have a man regard her as an intellectual equal. At the same time, she was aware that he would never belong in her world.
Miss Hartley cleared her throat. “My brother has informed me that you have kindly agreed to chaperone me, ma’am.”
The entrance of three maids bearing laden tea trays prevented Emeline from making a suitable retort—one that would wing the brother and not the girl. He’d taken her assent for granted, had he? She noticed, as the maids bustled about, that Mr. Hartley was watching her quite openly. She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, but he only quirked his own back at her. Was he flirting with her? Didn’t he know that she was far, far out of his reach?
When the tea things had been settled, Emeline began to pour, her back so straight that she put even Tante to shame. “I am considering championing you, Miss Hartley.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “Perhaps you’ll tell me why you have—?”
She was interrupted by a whirlwind. The sitting room door slammed against the wall, bouncing off the woodwork and putting yet another chip in the paint. A tangle of arms and long legs lunged at her.
Emeline jerked the hot teapot away with the ease of long practice.
“M’man! M’man!” panted the demon child. His blond curls were quite deceptively angelic. “Cook says she has made currant buns. May I have one?”
Emeline set down the teapot and drew in a breath to castigate him, only to find Tante talking instead. “Mais oui, mon chou! Here, take a plate and Tante Cristelle will pick out the buns most plump for you.”
Emeline cleared her throat, and both boy and elderly aunt looked at her guiltily. She smiled meaningfully at her offspring. “Daniel, would you be so kind as to put down that bun clutched in your fist and make your bows to our guests?”
Daniel relinquished his rather squashed prize, and then regrettably wiped his palm on his breeches. Emeline took a breath but refrained from commenting. One skirmish at a time. She turned to the Hartleys. “May I present my son, Daniel Gordon, Baron Eddings.”
The imp made a very correct bow—beautiful enough to cause her bosom to swell with maternal pride. Not, of course, that Emeline let her satisfaction show; no need to make the boy vain. Mr. Hartley held out his hand in the exact same gesture that he’d given her yesterday. Her son beamed. Grown men didn’t usually offer their hands to eight-year-olds, no matter their rank. Gravely, Daniel took the much larger hand and shook it.
“I’m pleased to meet you, my lord,” Mr. Hartley said.
Daniel bowed to the girl, and then Emeline handed him a bun wrapped in a cloth. “Now run away, dear. I have—”
“Surely your son can stay with us, ma’am,” Mr. Hartley interrupted her.
Emeline drew herself up. How dare the man interfere between her and her child? She was on the point of giving him a set-down when he caught her eye. Mr. Hartley’s eyes were wrinkled about the edges, but instead of amusement, they appeared to reflect sorrow. He didn’t even know her son. Why, then, would he feel pity for the boy?
“Please, M’man?” Daniel asked.
Her consternation should’ve only grown stronger—the boy knew better than to beg once she’d made a decision—but instead something inside her melted.
“Oh, very well.” She knew she sounded like a grumpy old woman, but Daniel grinned and took a seat near Mr. Hartley, wiggling back in the too-big chair. And Mr. Hartley smiled at her with his coffee-brown eyes. That sight seemed to make her breath come short, which was a ridiculous reaction from a mature woman of the world.
“So, then, this is most pleasant,” Tante Cristelle said. She winked at Daniel, and he squirmed in his chair until he caught his mother’s eye. “But now, I think, we must discuss Mademoiselle Hartley’s clothing.”
Miss Hartley, who had just taken a sip of tea, seemed to choke. “Ma’am?”
Tante Cristelle nodded once. “It is atrocious.”
Mr. Hartley set his teacup down carefully. “Mademoiselle Molyneux, I think—”
The old woman rounded on him. “Do you wish your sister to be laughed at, eh? Do you want the other young ladies to whisper behind their fans? For the young men to refuse to dance with her? Is this what you aspire to?”
“No, of course not,” Mr. Hartley said. “What’s wrong with Rebecca’s dress?”
“Nothing.” Emeline set down her own dish of tea. “Nothing at all if Miss Hartley only wants to visit the parks and some of the sights of London. I’m quite sure what she’s wearing now is sufficient even for the fashionable of Boston in your colonies. But for the London haut ton—”
“She must have the frocks very elegant!” Tante Cristelle exclaimed. “And also the gloves and the shawls and the hats and the shoes.” She leaned forward to thump her stick. “The shoes, they are most important.”
Miss Hartley glanced at her slippers in alarm, but Mr. Hartley only looked faintly amused. “I see.”
Tante Cristelle peered at him shrewdly. “And all of these things, they will cost a pretty penny, non?”
She didn’t add that he would be providing a wardrobe for Emeline as well. It was understood in London society that this was the way in which Emeline would be recompensed for her time spent chaperoning his sister.