Emily felt sick as she slowly refolded the note. She had realized something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. She had tried to pretend her father would show some sense in his gaming but she had known, deep down, that his passion for cards and hazard was too strong. Her mother had often told her he would never change.

And now he was calling on his daughter for help, knowing that in doing so he was forcing her to choose between her loyalty to her husband and her obligations as a daughter.

It was too much. Reality had intruded once more into her world, ripping aside the romantic curtain she tried to maintain around herself.

Emily put her head down on her arms and wept.

Chapter 18

Emily was dressing for the theater that evening when Simon walked into her bedchamber through the connecting door. She gave a small start at the sight of him and then managed a wan smile.

"Thank you, Lizzie. That will be all for now."

"Yes, ma'am." Lizzie bobbed a curtsey and left.

Emily met Simon's eyes in the looking glass. Then her gaze slid away. He was so very powerful and compelling in his austere evening clothes. "You are going out, my lord?"

"I shall dine at my club this evening while you attend the theater with Lady Northcote and her daughter." Simon's gaze was watchful. "But I shall find you later at the Bridgetons'."

Emily nodded quickly and the plumes in her hair danced. She was nervous and she knew she had to be careful or Simon would notice something was wrong. "I shall see you there, then. Did I show you the new pair of opera glasses I bought yesterday?" She reached for her reticule and started digging in it industriously. Anything not to have to meet that too-observant gaze.

"Very nice." Simon nodded approvingly at the delicately designed glasses.

"They give a wonderful view. I was using them to watch a bird outside the window earlier and I could see the tiniest details on its wings," Emily said, valiantly struggling to muster an air of enthusiasm.

"I am certain they are an excellently made pair of opera glasses, my dear."

Emily did not fancy the new speculation in Simon's eyes. "Celeste and her mother have told me that the production of Othello we're going to see this evening is one of the best that's ever been done."

"It should be quite exciting."

"Yes, I am certain it will. Did I tell you I had a long chat with Smoke today about the menu for the buffet at the soiree?"

"No, you did not mention it. Emily, is something wrong?"

"No, no, of course not, my lord." She summoned a brilliant smile and managed to meet his eyes briefly in the looking glass. "I am merely excited about going to the theater."

"Emily—"

"As I was saying, Smoke is very reluctant to prepare the standard fare for our guests. He says you prefer his Eastern style of cooking, which I am fully aware is very tasty, but I fear our guests will find it odd."

"Smoke will prepare whatever you tell him to prepare or he will be looking for a new position," Simon said casually. He moved forward and put his powerful hands on Emily's shoulders and seemingly willed her to meet his gaze once more. "Do not fret about the buffet menu, my dear. Tell me what is making you so anxious tonight."

She sat very still and stared into the looking glass with an anguished expression. "Simon, I cannot tell you."

Simon's mouth curved faintly. "I am afraid I must insist. We communicate on a higher plane, so I already know something is wrong, my dear. If you do not tell me the truth, I shall be in torment all evening. Do you wish me to suffer so?"

Emily felt a pang of guilt. "Of course not, my lord. It is just that this is a… a personal problem and I do not want to bother you with it." She sighed and added, "In any event, there is nothing that can be done. Fate has dealt its final hand."

But even as she made that tragic statement, her eyes were reflecting a glimmer of hopefulness and she knew Simon saw it. His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulders.

"It sounds as though we are discussing a card game," Simon said gently. "Is that the case?"

"Several card games, I fear," Emily confided. "And the final one was a disaster. Oh, Simon, it is all so perfectly awful and I do not know what to do. I know I cannot ask you for help in this matter."

Simon's brow quirked. "Are you by any chance under the hatches, elf? I am aware that the ladies occasionally play a bit deep among themselves, but I never imagined you as the sort to get into dun territory."

"It is not me who is under the hatches," Emily burst out, "it is my father. Oh, Simon, he sent me a note today saying he has lost everything and more."

Simon did not move but in the glass his eyes were suddenly blazing. His big hands clamped around Emily's bare shoulders. "Has he, indeed? Yes, of course. I should have guessed. It was only a matter of time, naturally, but I had rather expected him to last a bit longer than this."

Emily saw the savage satisfaction in his face and something in the pit of her stomach shriveled and died. She knew then that a part of her had hoped against hope that when the inevitable occurred, Simon would soften toward her father, just as he had softened toward the twins, Northcote, Canonbury, and Peppington.

"Simon?" she whispered helplessly.

"You are quite right, my dear," he murmured. "You cannot ask me to help this time. I have waited too long for this moment." His hands fell from her shoulders. He looked down and frowned at the red marks he had left on her soft, white skin. He touched one imprint gently and then turned toward the door. "I will see you later at the Bridgetons'." He paused briefly, hand on the knob. "Emily?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Remember that you are no longer a Faringdon."

The door closed softly behind him.

Emily sat with her hands clenched in her lap, telling herself she must not give in to the tears again.

But the truth was she had not felt this helpless and trapped since the day her mother had died, leaving her to assume the full financial responsibility of her father and brothers.

Covent Garden was filled with boisterous theater-goers from several levels of Society. The ton glittered in the boxes and promenaded in the lobbies. Lesser mortals filled the galleries and the pits. All were exuberant and fully prepared to let the actors know exactly what they thought of the performance. Many had brought vegetable peelings, bells, and assorted noisemakers to aid in conveying their opinions.

"Did you bring your new pair of opera glasses?" Celeste asked as the small party made its way through the crowded lobby. Lady Northcote had paused briefly to speak to a friend.

"Yes, I have them with me." Emily glanced blindly around, having stashed her spectacles in her reticule. All she could see was a blur of color and movement.

She and Celeste were being jostled about and Emily was about to put on the spectacles to better defend herself when she felt a man's hand on her arm.

"What on earth?" Emily whirled around and saw a vague halo of graying blond hair. Her heart sank. She was aware of Celeste's curiosity. "Papa! What are you doing here?"

"Happened to be attending the performance and spotted you entering the lobby," Broderick Faringdon said with a false joviality. "How are you, my dear?"

"I am fine, Papa. Allow me to present my friend." Emily quickly ran through the introductions, praying Lady Northcote would return and whisk them off to their boxes.

Broderick acknowledged the introduction with the usual Faringdon charm. Then he tugged firmly on Emily's arm.

"If you don't mind, I would like a few words in private, m'dear. Haven't seen you in an age."