"I fear that singing is not his greatest talent," Lord Hartshore admitted with a wince. "Still, what he lacks in skill he more than compensates with his enthusiasm."

"Yes."

Lord Hartshore shrugged. "It makes him happy."

Reaching for her champagne, Emma turned her gaze back to the gentleman across from her.

"Have you ever attempted to halt him from his diggings?"

His brows rose. "Why should I?"

"Because there is nothing to find."

He leaned back in his seat with a nonchalant movement. "How do we know he might not stumble across some treasure or other? Besides, it is the search that pleases him. Do we all not search for some treasure in our life? Fortune, notoriety . . . love?"

Emma was forced to concede that she had not considered the matter in that particular light.

"Yes, I suppose so."

The golden gaze swept over her pale features. "What treasure do you hope to discover, Miss Cresswell?"

She did not have to ponder the question. "Security."

"A worthy goal."

"But dull," she challenged, knowing that few would ever comprehend her burning need.

Astonishingly, a somber expression descended upon his dark countenance.

"I suppose that rather depends upon whether one possesses it or not. Like most luxuries, we take it for granted until it is gone," he said in low tones. "I recall enough of my parents' habit of appearing and disappearing from my life to sympathize with the fear of not knowing what the morrow might bring. It was Aunt Cassie who at last brought me comfort."

Her heart skipped at his gentle understanding. "And what do you search for?"

He considered for a moment before replying. "Happiness, I suppose. Pleasure, beauty . . . love."

"Love?"

"Does that surprise you?"

It did, Emma acknowledged. Among fashionable Society, gentlemen rarely admitted the need for such an emotion. Indeed, it was often frowned upon as a symbol of weakness. Of course, this gentleman was hardly the traditional sort, she wryly reminded herself. His strength came from deep within and was not dependent upon what others thought of him.

She felt a pang of envy at his natural confidence.

"I would think if you were searching for love, you would travel to London."

"Why?"

"There are any number of suitable young maidens to chose from in town," she said, pointing out the obvious.

An odd expression descended upon his lean features. "You think one can shop for love as if it were a new coat?"

She was taken aback by his probing question. "Well, they do refer to the Season as the Marriage Mart."

"Ah, but choosing a proper bride and falling in love are two entirely different matters." He leaned forward, bringing him close enough that the heat and scent of him seemed to surround her. "I have no interest in the herd of debutantes being auctioned to the highest bidder. I wish to possess the same magic that Cassie and Fredrick shared."

For no reason, a sharp pang assailed her at the thought of some beautiful maiden bewitching this gentleman.

She set down her fork, her appetite suddenly absent.

"And you believe you will find such a maiden in Kent?"

"Actually I trust in Fate to drop her at my very feet."

There was something in his husky tone that had her gaze lowering to her half-empty plate.

"I wish you luck."

His chuckle sent a shiver down her spine.

"Thank you. I have a premonition that I shall need it." There was a rustle, then a bowl of ripe strawberries was waved beneath her eyes. "Some fruit?"

She was saved from the necessity of answering as the door to the conservatory opened and a flustered Lady Hartshore made her way to the table.

At her arrival, both Emma and Lord Hartshore rose to their feet.

"Oh, Cedric, my dear," she cried in distress. "Forgive me for intruding on your lovely luncheon."

"We were just finishing," Lord Hartshore assured the older woman. "What has occurred?"

"I was sitting in the back parlor, enjoying a lovely cup of tea, when that dreadful . . ." Her words trailed away as her gaze landed upon the table. "Is that lobster?"

Tossing Emma an amused glance, Lord Hartshore obligingly reached for the platter of lobster.

"Yes, indeed it is. Would you care for a taste?"

Lady Hartshore eagerly reached out to take the buttered delicacy.

"Well, perhaps just a taste."

Lord Hartshore reached for another plate. "Some custard?"

She reached out her hand, only to pull it hastily back. "Oh, it looks so tempting, but Fredrick says that custards always give me nightmares."

Lord Hartshore's lips twitched again, but he readily set aside the dangerous custard.

"Well, we cannot have that."

Lady Hartshore heaved a sigh. "No, I suppose not."

"Was there a reason for seeking me out, Aunt Cassie?" he prompted gently.

"Of course. How silly of me," Lady Hartshore exclaimed, returning the lobster to the table. "That wretched vicar has called."

Emma grimaced, but Lord Hartshore merely shrugged. "I suppose it was inevitable."

"Yes," Lady Hartshore mourned, then visibly brightened. "Although his companion appears delightful enough. And quite handsome."

Sensing the flighty countess was distracted once again, Lord Hartshore steered her back to the purpose of seeking him out.

"Do you wish me to rid you of your unwelcome guest?"

Lady Hartshore pressed her hands together. "If you would, my dear. I must ensure that Mrs. Borelli does not do anything foolish."

"I shall be along in a moment," Lord Hartshore promised.

"Thank you, Cedric." With a grateful smile Lady Hartshore scurried away. No doubt pondering how to hide the most deadly knives from the ready hands of her volatile cook.

With a rueful grimace Lord Hartshore turned back to the silent Emma.

"It appears our interlude is at an end," he apologized. He held out his arm. "Shall we become St. George and rid Mayford of its dragon?"

"Perhaps I should help Lady Hartshore." Emma belatedly recalled her duty to her employer.

Reaching out, he firmly placed her hand upon his arm. "Oh, no, I refuse to do battle with the vicar without the support of flanking troops. Besides, your presence will ensure that I do not prove to be more dangerous than Mrs. Borelli."

Emma allowed herself to be led from the room, flashing him an amused smile.

"You could always take Pudge. He clearly is accustomed to your devious tactics."

He gave a bark of laughter. "I fear the last occasion Pudge encountered Mr. Allensway, he possessed the poor taste to ... er ... relieve himself upon the man's new shoes. I doubt if he has managed to conjure the Christian spirit of forgiving and forgetting."

She tried to choke back her laugh at the image of Pudge happily soaking the vicar's shoes.

"You are making that up," she accused the earl.

"I wish I were." Lord Hartshore heaved a mocking sigh as they made their way through the corridor. "Mr. Allensway condemned poor Pudge to the netherworld."

Emma gave a shake of her head. Although she should no doubt regret whatever weakness had prompted her to join Lord Hartshore in the conservatory, she could not conjure the elusive emotion. Instead, she knew that she would tuck the memory of their afternoon together along with their other shared moments in a secret portion of her mind. Memories that would be pulled out when she was far from Kent to bring brightness to a dark day.

Reaching the front parlor, he flashed her an encouraging smile before they stepped through the door. At their entrance, two gentlemen rose to their feet.

Emma gave the vicar a cursory glance before turning her attention to the tall gentleman with long, gray hair pulled back from his thin countenance in a velvet ribbon. A heavy mustache covered his upper lip and a pair of thick glasses distorted his green eyes. He was attired in somber black with an ebony cane in one hand.

As Lady Hartshore claimed, he was a handsome gentleman. A gentleman who might have graced any proper drawing room.

But at the sight of the stranger Emma felt her heart slam to a halt and her knees threaten to buckle.

This was no gentleman.

This was the Devilish Dandy.

"No . . . oh, no," she whispered.

Nine.

For a dreadful moment Emma feared that her knees might give way and she would crumple to the floor.

Heavens above, why had her father followed her to Kent?

Hadn't she made it grimly clear when he had returned to London that she had no desire to see him?

She had ignored his every message. She had avoided visiting Sarah when she feared he might be in her home. She had even halted her regular trips to Hatcher's with the knowledge he might attempt to seek her out there.

Why the blazes could he not leave her in peace?

Unaware of the undercurrents in the air, the vicar stepped forward and cleared his throat in a self-important fashion.

"My lord, how fortunate you are here. I have brought my guest, Mr. Winchell, to introduce him to your lovely aunt."

Unimpressed, Lord Hartshore gave a faint shrug. "I fear there has been a trifling incident below stairs that has demanded Lady Hartshore's attention."

The vicar's face paled to a pasty hue at the thought of Mrs. Borelli collecting her knives from the kitchen, but determined to impress his guest, he managed a weak smile.

"Ah ... indeed. Well, no matter. I would be pleased to make you known to Mr. Winchell. Mr. Winchell, this is the esteemed Lord Hartshore."

Emma clenched her hands as her father stepped forward. She did not fear he was about to expose her. He would not have arrived in Kent under the guise of the mysterious Mr. Winchell if he wanted others to know his true identity. There was, however, always the possibility that Lord Hartshore might recognize him as the notorious Solomon Cresswell. From there it was only a short leap to realize she was related to the jewel thief.

The mere thought was enough to make her heart freeze in horror.

Thankfully there was nothing more than mild curiosity as Lord Hartshore gave a faint bow.

"Mr. Winchell."

"My lord."

"And this is Lady Hartshore's companion, Miss . . . er ..." The vicar gave his cravat an uncomfortable tug as he struggled to recall Emma's name.

Emma paid him no heed as her father moved to take her lifeless hand in his own.

"Cresswell," he completed for the vicar.

Emma's shaky knees abruptly stiffened at the manner Solomon was regarding her with such tender concern.