Hamish faced the crowd, and his voice rang with effortless authority. "I believe Sir John needs quiet and privacy. Under the circumstances, I won’t be making my presentation. It’s also been brought to my attention that the pamphlets contain a printing error. So all round, we must delay our celebration of the new comet for a few weeks. I apologize for your disappointment and I thank you for coming tonight."
Emily regarded him in amazement and unwilling admiration. She’d forgotten he was a lord up in his wild Scottish hills. His air of command and his clear-eyed gaze had quite a few of the guests shuffling in embarrassment. She also had to give him credit for his quick thinking when it came to the pamphlets. A printing error indeed.
The guests started to shuffle toward the doors, however reluctantly. To her surprise, that lordly dictate achieved its purpose, despite Hamish being younger than nearly every man here and the room heaving with London’s great and good. Not to mention that this wasn’t his house, so he had no right to order visitors on their way.
On the other hand, Hamish was big and strong enough to toss any naysayers out on their ear if they dared to dawdle. When Emily first met him, his size as much as his intellectual self-confidence had daunted her. He was a huge, yellow-haired bear of a man. Handsome, she supposed, if one wanted a great lump of potent masculinity overshadowing one. She had more refined tastes. Although few of her female friends had ever found all that raw muscle and Scottish vigor off-putting.
"We must expect some high spirits from the young people. A storm in a teacup. Speaking of storms, given the weather, it would be prudent to make our way home." Sir Humphry Davy, President of the Royal Society for the last two years, threw his considerable influence into clearing the room. He hadn’t been well lately and walked with a stick which he deployed with complete lack of ceremony to usher the guests out. After the previous president, the urbane Sir Joseph Banks, Sir Humphry’s bluff manners had come as a jolt to the gentleman scientists. "I’ll arrange for Mr. Douglas to present his findings at the next meeting. No harm done. No harm done."
Except Emily could see that great harm had been done. The crowd might disburse as requested, but she caught the speculative glances leveled at her and Hamish. With difficulty, she kept herself from cringing away from the knowing looks. She knew just what the scientists of London and their wives would talk about over their toast and marmalade tomorrow morning. That shameless hussy Emily Baylor and that rogue Hamish Douglas.
Nausea churned in her stomach, and her hand tightened on her father’s skeletal arm. Once upon a time, he’d been fit and alert. Once upon a time, he’d be the first to defend his daughter’s honor. Now he was old and frail and lost to what went on around him most of the time. That was the cruelest cut of all. Because in his more lucid moments, he’d understand the spiteful things that people said after tonight’s farrago.
Sir Humphry bustled toward them. She read concern and apprehension beneath his air of bonhomie. "John, Emily, I’m so sorry the evening has come to an early end. John, we haven’t seen enough of you these past months. I hope you’ll come to the society’s meeting when this young Apollo finally gets his chance to report on his discovery."
With a vague air of recognition, her father peered at the man who had been one of his closest friends. Emily mustered a shaky smile for her godfather. "Uncle Humphry, I’m sorry for causing all this trouble. I swear nothing untoward happened. My frock got caught in a shrub."
Uncle Humphry’s round, blunt-featured face flushed with embarrassment. "I trust your word." His voice lowered, although Emily could have told him her father was too tired to follow the conversation. "Perhaps not the wisest—"
"My fault entirely, Sir Humphry. Please accept my apologies," Hamish said. "Such a pity that my request for a few moments of private conversation should cause this brouhaha."
Sir Humphry directed a disapproving stare at Hamish. "Yes, well, this room might be packed to the gills with the biggest brains in England. That doesn’t stop them enjoying a good gossip. They lap up scandal as avidly as any empty-headed old maid in Tunbridge Wells."
A warning Emily didn’t need. Her stomach heaved and she feared she might actually be sick. By tomorrow morning, the tale of her lapse with the young Laird of Glen Lyon would be all over Town.
Chapter 4
Emily was in the library at the Bloomsbury house, struggling to focus on the household accounts. That task was always a trial, even when she felt vigorous and alert. But her father had had a bad night, and she’d been up to him several times. Eventually just before dawn, he’d fallen into a restless doze. This was his second interrupted night in a row, and it was all Hamish Douglas’s fault. Papa had come back from Greenwich in a state, despite her best efforts to reassure him that everything was as it should be.
The problem was that she was a terrible liar, especially when she was in a state herself. While her father drifted in and out of reality with bewildering swiftness, enough of his native brilliance remained for him to note a room’s emotional temperature. Not only that, he knew her too well to believe her comforting falsehoods. Since her mamma’s death eleven years ago, Emily had worked in close partnership with him. He knew she was upset, he knew something untoward had happened at Pascoe Place, and he knew nobody had yet told him the full story.
No wonder he fretted.
Now on this rainy morning, Emily fretted, too, as eyes scratchy with sleeplessness studied the neat rows of figures in the ledger. There was enough money – just – but it was clear that she needed to make more economies. In recognition of his distinguished scientific work, the Crown had granted her father a modest pension. But the next payment wasn’t due for another six weeks.
She struggled not to think of the grim future awaiting, once her father passed away and the pension ceased. Aside from her inevitable grief, she’d have to find some way of supporting herself in a world that didn’t favor overeducated females with a high opinion of their capabilities.
Groaning, she covered her face as she recalled those vile moments in Greenwich. The queasy feeling returned with a vengeance, although it had never really gone away. Thanks to the night before last, she wasn’t just an overeducated female with a high opinion of her capabilities. She also had a scandal hanging over her head.
Emily was so lost in misery, it took her a moment to realize that someone knocked at the door. With a heartfelt sigh, she lowered her hands and squared her shoulders. No doubt, given how gossip spread, the staff already knew about her disgrace, but she intended to put a brave face on things for as long as she could. "Come."
Polly the housemaid opened the door and curtsied. "Begging your pardon for interrupting, miss, but Mr. Douglas is here."
Mr. Douglas? Outrage twisted Emily’s stomach. The author of her current troubles was the last person she wanted to see. How she wished to heaven she’d left Hamish to stew. "I’m not at home to visitors this morning, Polly."
The maid cast a quick look behind her. "He’s very set on seeing you."
She could imagine. No wonder Polly looked flustered. Hamish in full flight could take on Napoleon and win. A mere housemaid would have no chance against him.
Nonetheless after about three hours’ sleep in the last two days, Emily was in no mood to hear his apologies. If apologies were indeed what he came for.
"Well, he can be set somewhere else," she said. "I’m busy."
"Not too busy to see me, I’m sure," a rumbling bass voice said from the corridor. Hamish brushed past a fluttery Polly to stand large and vivid and so cursed self-satisfied in the middle of the floor.
Emily ground her teeth and narrowed her eyes on the almost ridiculously virile male adorning her library. How she wished he wasn’t such a supreme example of masculinity. His self-confidence had always stuck in her craw, and she hated having to admit that there might be some justification for his swagger.
Perhaps it was because he was Scottish – even if he sounded as London-bred as she did – that Hamish always brought th