Voices faded as she quit the lovely breakfast room and made her way to her chambers, where she sat down at the small desk near the fireplace and penned a letter to Amy.
My Dearest Friend Amy,
I hope this letter finds you well, and I pray your aunt is treating you with kindness. Life here in England is a whirlwind. Each evening we attend a ball or soirée, and every afternoon we receive callers. Everything is so formal. Sometimes I miss the simplicity of Miss Beauregard’s. The duke’s family has been very kind and welcoming to me. As each day progresses I feel more and more a part of the Seabrook family. Last evening I attended Almack’s. I must admit the papers in Boston make it sound much more exciting than it is, although I did have a splendid time. Please write me back and tell me how everything is at school. And remember, I will always be here for you even though an ocean separates us.
Your Friend Forever,
Emma
After sealing and addressing the missive, Emma mused about a new story that came to mind aboard the ship. Today she would finally begin to pen it. Grabbing parchment and dipping her quill in the inkwell, she started to put her ideas to paper.
Anna Rosenberg, widowed at the tender age of one-and-twenty, left penniless by a no-good, gambling husband, found herself alone in a strange world. Why, oh why, had she not listened to her mama and papa? They told her Stephen Rosenberg, the Viscount Avery was a no-good liar. But did she believe them? No. He had swept her off her feet with smooth words and charming behavior. He had seduced her primarily for her generous dowry. She knew that now. Now that she lived in his world, in England, having left Mama and Papa behind in Boston. Her stubborn pride refused to let her send them a missive requesting help. If she did, they would pay her passage home. Save her from ruin.
As she stepped into a dressmaker’s shop, her arms full of beautiful gowns she had brought with her from America, her heart felt heavy. The ache was not caused by having to sell her lovely clothing. Her heart broke because of her stupidity…for not seeing her husband for what he truly had been.
If she did not receive a substantial amount today for selling her gowns, she would be cast out of the rooms she’d let after being thrown out of Stephen’s townhouse by the true owners. Another lie he’d told her. He did not own it, though he’d said he did. Nor did he own any other properties he had told her father about. She even found out he was not a viscount of any kind. Just plain old Stephen Rosenberg, deceased and buried with all the other paupers in London as she had refused to part with the few coins she had saved to bury him proper. Besides, in her eyes he did not deserve it. He was exactly where he deserved to be.
“May I help you, my dear?”
Pulled out of her thoughts by the shopkeeper, she said, “I was hoping to sell these.”
The older woman, dressed in a lovely but serviceable deep blue day dress, took her burden and examined each of the gowns closely. “These are lovely. Are you certain you want to part with them?”
“Yes, madam, I must.”
“You are an American?”
“Yes, I hail from Boston.”
She refused to cry. Damn. She searched for her lace hanky in her reticule to soak up her tears. “I’m sorry. I am not usually one for tears.”
The shopkeeper draped the dresses on the counter and took Anna’s hand. “Come now, my dear, things can seem worse than they are. Perhaps some tea and someone to confide in will help?”
Emma put the quill down and stared at the page before her. The page was stained with her tears. Even while she was immersed in her own stories he tormented her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thomas paced the room while he listened to Amesbury heaving violently into the bedpan. According to the duke’s calculations, his friend dry-heaved every half-hour, like clockwork. And that did not count actual trips to the water closet. It took both himself and Myles to keep Amesbury on his feet so he could reach the commode. Thomas forced himself not to think ahead to when Amesbury was feeling well again.
How mortified he would be when he remembered he’d been dependent on his friends––as dependent and weak as a newborn babe.
Thomas was relieved when the doctor stopped by again, even though he did little but listen to Amesbury’s heart, take his pulse, and declare him on the road to recovery.
Tell that to Amesbury who lay in bed, shaking, sweating, vomiting, and cursing up a storm—all the while begging for opium. At times he went from being weak as a babe to being stronger than five men.
“Take this,” Amesbury demanded, holding out the bedpan to Myles. “And damn the two of you to hell. Let me be. Let me take my drugs and sink back into oblivion.”