Free Emily and the Dark Angel by Jo Beverley

our closest neighbor ...”
    “Who is this man?” asked Emily, knowing perfectly well.
    “A certain Mr. Verderan,” said Hector sourly. “The worst example of the type.”
    “Goodness,” said Emily. Her scarce-acknowledged hopes that he had been teasing when he described himself as a rake crumbled. “What—what do we know about him?”
    “I would not sully a lady’s ears with what I know,” said Hector, much to Emily’s disappointment. “Suffice it to say that he is unfitted for any lady’s company.”
    Emily remembered Mrs. Dobson’s warning and wondered nervously if Hector would wash his hands of her if he discovered she had walked the length of Melton on the man’s arm. Then she reminded herself that it was as yet none of his business.
    “Hector,” she said firmly, “I’m afraid I can’t cut anyone’s acquaintance without reason. If he’s Casper’s heir he is our neighbor and I’ll doubtless have business dealings with him.”
    Hector stiffened. “Emily, I ...” Emily knew he had been about to say, “I forbid it,” but had realized that he did not have the right. “I will speak to your father,” he said weightily and rose.
    “Hector, that may not be wise,” warned Emily. “Any mention of the Sillitoes upsets Sir Henry.”
    “Then he will be all the more anxious to keep you away from the man,” he retorted. “It is time your father was brought to realize that he must hire someone competent to run the estate.”
    Emily watched tight-lipped as he left. It would do no good to protest further unless she wanted to alienate Hector. And apart from his status as possible husband, Margaret was her dearest friend.
    Margaret moved quickly to take her hands. “I am sorry, Emily. But you know Hector.”
    “Yes, indeed.” At times like this Emily knew she would be insane to even think of marrying him. “I do wish he wouldn’t upset Father, though. And yet on the other hand, Father seems to relish a good fight now and then.”
    “I don’t think it will do him any harm,” agreed Margaret. “But I’ll be surprised if Hector sways him, which means you probably will get to meet the rake. What fun. I’m dying to see him myself.”
    “Why? You surely would never be interested in such a one, Margo.”
    “I’m only interested in Marcus,” said Margaret firmly, if wistfully. “But it’s like a giraffe at the zoo,” she went on with determined good humor. “I just want to see what a rake is like. It will doubtless be a dreadful disappointment, just like the giraffe I saw when we went to London. Flea-bitten, and on its last legs.”
    Emily thought of Piers Verderan and giggled. “No, really, Margo. A flea-bitten rake?”
    Margaret nodded. “Port wine nose. Gout. Corsets.”
    Emily had great trouble not to laugh out loud and discovered an urgent desire to share this with a certain lean, handsome, healthy gentleman of her acquaintance. “Is he old then?” Emily asked innocently.
    Margaret grinned. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she admitted. “Since all I have are Hector’s annoyingly guarded warnings, I’ve been indulging in the most absurd flights of fancy. It’s as good as a novel and someday I’ll be able to see how close my suppositions are to the truth. After all, we’re sure to at least see him in passing. He may even come to church.”
    “A rake at Evensong?” queried Emily.
    “Old Sir Bertram comes every Sunday, and he’s the greatest rascal out.”
    “Well, Margaret,” said Emily conspiratorially. “Promise. Anything you find out, tell me.”
    “Of course,” whispered her friend as they heard a door close rather loudly across the corridor. “And you the same?”
    “Of course,” Emily promised, guiltily aware that she was already concealing a great deal from her friend.
    At that moment Hector returned, looking disgruntled. “Your father grows more unreasonable every day, Emily. I offer earnest prayers for your brother’s safe return.”
    “Thank you,