The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(64)
Despite the playful tone in Emma’s voice, the trio turned around with a start, like three conspirators caught in the act.
“Emma, my love!” Murray exclaimed, walking toward her with outstretched arms. “Where were you? I was worried sick. I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me!”
“Don’t be silly! I’m the one who has spent the last fifteen minutes looking for you.”
“Really? Why, I’ve been here all the time, chatting with my dear friends the Wellses,” Murray replied, turning toward the couple with such a polished smile that Wells’s gorge began to rise. “Mr. and Mrs. Wells, it is my honor to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Emma Harlow. Darling, this is the author H. G. Wells and his charming wife.”
“Mr. Wells! What a pleasure it is to meet you!” Emma exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. “I’m a great admirer of your work. I’ve read all your novels.”
Wells kissed Emma’s gracefully proffered hand, cursing Murray’s aplomb and trying to suppress his rage. He would have liked nothing more than to unmask that impostor in front of the na?ve young woman who had the misfortune to be betrothed to him. And yet, his sense of decorum, and above all his self-consciousness, far outweighed his sense of duty. But what if he dispensed with good manners and announced in a loud voice that Montgomery Gilmore was in fact Gilliam Murray, the deceased Master of Time? What face would Emma make then? Not to mention the obese lady clambering aboard her carriage clutching a miniature Pekinese to her ample bosom. Or the footman coming over to tell them their carriage was next in line, and the group of gentlemen next to them talking animatedly. Half of London society was crammed under the opera portico, jostling one another with genteel smiles. Wells was sure his revelation would provide them with a thrilling topic of conversation for the long, tedious winter season. And what could the all-powerful Murray do to stop him?
“Bertie, my dear, Miss Harlow asked you a question.”
“What?”
Wells blinked, bewildered, but before he could apologize, he felt a painful cramp in his stomach. He couldn’t help giving a drawn-out groan.
“Bertie, whatever is the matter?” Jane was alarmed.
Suddenly pale, Wells pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the sweat glistening on his brow, wondering whether he might be suffering a sudden attack of indigestion.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Wells?” he heard Emma inquire.
“Yes, yes, I’m quite all right. It’s just, er . . . my shoes are pinching me,” he murmured, trying to straighten up. “Forgive me, Miss Harlow, what were you saying?”
“Oh, just that Monty told me you might not be able to come to the reception were are holding next month, and I wanted to know if there is any way I could change your minds. I am very persuasive when I want to be.”
“Emma, my dear,” Murray hurriedly intervened, “I’m sure that George and his charming wife must have a very good reason not to—”
“You’re no doubt right, dear. But, as you must know by now, a good reason is something your future wife cannot help objecting to,” replied the girl, smiling at the couple with the easy charm of someone used to getting her own way. “You see, Mr. Wells, as I’m sure you know, your latest novel played a pivotal, dare I say decisive, role in our romance,” she declared, grinning at Murray. “Besides, Monty professes a boundless admiration for you. And as if that weren’t enough, I am aware that the two of you enjoy a degree of friendship, about which, incidentally, my unforthcoming fiancé has told me next to nothing. Not that this worries me, for I feel sure I shall obtain more information from your charming wife. And so, as you can see, Mr. Wells, you and Mrs. Wells absolutely have to come to our ball.”
Emma’s beaming smile faded somewhat when she saw that Wells was no longer listening to her but was absorbed in contemplating something behind her. The young lady’s exquisite manners prevented her from turning round, so she couldn’t discover what it was the author was observing so intently. However, I can, and I have no qualms about telling you: Wells was staring at the back of one of the gentlemen who, having separated himself discreetly from his group, was almost propped against Murray’s broad back, as if he were trying to listen in on their conversation. And the sight of those slightly sloping shoulders had aroused in Wells a strange feeling of unease, a profound melancholy that was as familiar as it was disturbing. Emma gave her fiancé a sidelong glance, to which he responded with a shrug.
“Miss Harlow,” said Jane, who, despite the distress her husband’s odd behavior was causing her, managed to sound quite calm, “George and I are very grateful for your kind interest, and I assure you we will do our utmost to comply with your wish—”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t think we can do so,” Wells cut in. Due to his malaise, his words sounded too abrupt to him, and, looking straight at the astonished young woman, he added in a more civil tone: “Please accept our apologies, Miss Harlow.”
“Your carriage is waiting, sir,” one of the footmen informed Wells. “Please follow me.”
“Marvelous, marvelous!” declared Murray, visibly relieved. “What luck, George, there’s your carriage. At last you can take the weight off those feet of yours. That’s what I call a proper coachman. They don’t make them like that anymore. You must give me the name of the agency he comes from, but not that of your shoemaker. You can’t imagine the trouble I’m having with coachmen at the moment! My current one is a half-witted drunkard who spends all day boozing. And judging by the time he’s taking, I’ll wager he’s at it again this evening. I can’t even see the accursed carriage at the back of the queue. Well, it won’t be the first time he leaves me high and dry, but by Jove it’ll be the last! I shall dismiss him this very night. But hurry, George, get your skates on; don’t make your charming wife stand around in this awful drizzle.” Murray took Jane’s hand and in his agitation kissed it repeatedly. Then he shook his hands at the couple, like an affectionate parent urging them on. “Don’t stand on ceremony; get into your carriage. It’s been a pleasure seeing you, George, as always.” He made as if to clap Wells on the back but appeared to think better of it, and his hand made a vague gesture in the air. “Ah, and don’t worry about the reception, you are excused. Emma and I understand that a famous author like you must have a hundred pressing engagements, isn’t that right, darling?”