Free The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne by Madeline Hunter

she would ever admit that to the Earl of Southwaite.
    *     *     *
    A t two o’clock that afternoon, Emma called for her carriage. She pulled on her black gloves, tied on her black bonnet, picked up her black parasol, and strode down the stairs of her house. On the second level she glanced into the drawing room. The empty drawing room.
    Not a single applicant had been sent by Mr. Weatherby today. She and Cassandra had waited in vain all morning to see if Mr. Laughton could be improved upon by someone in today’s batch of hopeful young men.
    A half hour later she entered Mr. Weatherby’s chambers on Green Street. After a brief wait, Mr. Weatherby received her.
    She explained her surprise at the dearth of applicants today for her advertised situation. “Were there no inquiries at all?”
    Mr. Weatherby, a solicitor who supplemented his fees by offering services such as he now provided to her, was a short, thin man composed of points, the most prominent being that of his nose. Pointed ears and eyebrows sung in harmony and, given the tune being played, even his shirt collar’s ends seemed to hum along.
    He responded blandly. “It happens this way sometimes. Most of the response comes the first day the advertisement runs in the newspaper.”
    “Most, you say. In this case it was all.”
    “I am not responsible for the success of an advertisement, Miss Fairbourne. I cannot imagine what you expect of me, but I am sure that I cannot help you.” His nose aimed down to a paper on his desk. “My clerk will see you out.”
    He was rudely dismissing her, without even the courtesy of an adequate explanation.
    She remained steadfast in her chair. He refused to acknowledge that she still sat there. Finally she stood. Positioned across the desk’s expanse from the solicitor, she slammed her parasol down on the desk with as much force as she could.
    The inkwell jumped. Mr. Weatherby did too. Then he reared back in his chair, eyes wide and mouth open, aghast at how close that parasol had come to his bent head.
    “Mr. Weatherby, you were more than solicitous the day you sold me your services. You can remain courteous today as I ask the reason your services have halted with such abruptness. I am not so stupid as to believe that every single person in London even slightly suitable for that position came here all on one day.”
    He just stared at her, and the parasol, with astonishment.
    She stood the parasol up on the desk and held it by its hilt. “Did even a single man come here today in response to the notice?”
    Mr. Weatherby nodded.
    “How many?”
    Dumbfounded, he held up five fingers.
    “Why did you not send them to my house?”
    Mr. Weatherby hesitated. Emma readjusted her grip on the parasol. Mr. Weatherby cleared his throat, found his voice, and explained.
    “I am thinking this must be it, Miss Fairbourne,” her coachman, Mr. Dillon, said. “ ’Tis the one the fellow at the White Swan described.”
    Emma looked at the pale façade of the huge town house facing St. James Square. It certainly looked big enough to be an earl’s home. She would have to trust that the fellow at the White Swan had gotten it right.
    She alighted, and paused to fish a calling card from her reticule. She gave her bonnet a tweak on its rim to ensure it was straight. Calling up the blistering fury that had brought her here, and swallowing the sudden misgivings that assaulted her, she approached the door.
    Although overwhelmed in her memory by thoughts of the Outrageous Misconception, Southwaite’s parting comment about visiting the auction house had nagged at her all night too. It implied more interference than she hadexpected, or than she could afford. Southwaite was skeptical of her claims about Obediah, so it would not do for Southwaite to loiter around the exhibition hall. If he did, she could not go there herself and attend to the duties that she had claimed Obediah would be performing.
    By morning she had convinced herself