Emma allowed Bailey to drape a shawl becomingly around her shoulders and then sallied forth to meet the foremost miniaturist of the day.
Richard Cosway, RA, was a little old man with a rather scrunched-up face, but it was unfair of his fellow macaronies to have labelled him a "monkey", Emma decided. He had taken the liberty of sitting down in the bookroom while he waited. That was allowable, given his advanced years. He must be past seventy. He rose, with the help of a silver-topped ebony cane, and bowed low.
"Mr Richard Cosway?" Emma nodded to acknowledge his bow. "You are very prompt."
"Your summons was explicit, Lady Emma, and so I am here."
"Excellent." Emma crossed to the desk and sat down. "Pray be seated again, Mr Cosway. Our business need not detain us long. You have told no one of this meeting, I trust? Not even your wife?"
Cosway answered with a bow of his head. "No one. And my wife is at present in Italy."
"I am grateful to you for your discretion. I have a proposal to make to you. I wish you to paint my portrait. You continue to accept commissions, I trust?"
"Indeed, ma'am."
"Excellent. Then here is my proposal. I wish to have a miniature, an oval, on ivory, no more than three inches high; the exact size I leave to you. However, I wish there to be no written record whatsoever of the contract between us. Nor will you disclose to anyone that you have painted me."
The old man's eyes widened, but he said nothing.
"Furthermore, you will inscribe the back of the finished miniature with the name of the sitter, the date of completion, and the full details of yourself, as the artist. I take it that would present no problem?"
"It can be done, certainly."
"I will also require a letter, in your own hand, stating the conditions of our contract, namely that I required you to execute the commission in total secrecy, that you delivered the finished portrait into my hands, here at my house, and that, upon delivery, you were paid—" she paused for effect "—three times your normal fee."
The monkey jaw dropped a little.
"Your highest fee for such a miniature is thirty guineas, I believe?"
Cosway swallowed hard. His prominent Adam's apple stood out in his scrawny neck. He managed to nod in reply.
There was a scratch on the door. Bailey came in without a word, handed a roll of banknotes to Emma and curtseyed herself out again.
Emma had hoped for guineas. Her plan would have to be adjusted. But only slightly.
"It is not the usual practice, I am aware. But this is not the usual commission. If you are prepared to agree to all my terms, Mr Cosway, I will pay you—" She began to count the notes onto the desk in front of her. Yes, there was enough. She breathed more easily. "I will pay you thirty pounds now and the balance on the day you deliver the portrait and the letter into my hands. Is that agreeable to you?"
Cosway had to swallow again and clear his throat before he spoke. His gaze was fixed on the pile of banknotes. "It is a very generous offer, Lady Emma, and, er, I should be delighted to have the opportunity to paint such a beautiful lady. Indeed, I would gladly do it for my normal fee."
"Oh?" Emma smiled a little.
"But I readily accept your ladyship's additional conditions. And therefore also your proposals as regards the amount and timing of my fee."
Yes, I thought you would.
"That is splendid, Mr Cosway." She pushed the notes part-way across the desk towards him, but kept her hand on them, waiting. She had more conditions to impose.
"How soon would your ladyship wish to sit?"
Ah. Difficult. How many days was she about to spend at the Lamb House with Will? She hadn’t the foggiest idea. Will's note, which Emma had burned as soon as Bailey left the room, had been very specific about when and how Emma was to arrive for her stay with the phantom Mrs Smith, but had said nothing about delivering her back home again. Her naggy interior voice had noticed the omission, and pronounced it typical. Your precious Will has a cock for a compass, it had said.
That picture was too vivid, and too crude, for comfort. She pushed it away.
"I shall be from home for a few days," she managed to say, airily. "When I return, I will send you word. I cannot come to Stratford Place to sit for you, you understand. You must come to me here."
The old man did not seem to be at all fazed by that, or by her requirements for secrecy, either. The Prince and Mrs Fitzherbert had probably been much more finicky and demanding. Their secret marriage was potentially treasonous, after all. Cosway calmly asked a number of practical questions about the best room to use as a temporary painting studio, and about how formal Emma wanted the finished portrait to be. It could all be done in about a week, he said, provided Emma was prepared to make herself available when he needed her. Their bargain was struck.
Emma rose, rang the bell and handed over her butler's thirty pounds. Cosway tucked the roll into an inside pocket of his beautifully cut coat. The macaroni style was long gone, but the painter was clearly spending a great deal with his tailor, in spite of his advanced years. Once a dandy, always a dandy?
"Thank you, Mr Cosway," Emma said when the footman appeared to show her visitor out. "Remember that I am trusting to your discretion in this matter."
Cosway bowed over his cane. "You may depend on me, Lady Emma."
The moment the door closed behind him, Emma scurried back to the desk and began to hunt for the vital key. To her surprise, she found it in the first drawer she opened. An unlocked drawer, too. Lady Emma Groatster's security was either very lax or she had very trustworthy servants.
The strongbox was in the unlocked corner cupboard. Surely it would be sensible to keep her money much more securely than this? On the other hand, the servants might start to gossip if Lady Emma suddenly changed her slipshod ways. And she couldn't very well keep her strongbox key on a ribbon round her neck, could she? Not when she and Will—
Emma's eyes widened at the amount of money she found in the strongbox: fat rolls of banknotes and rouleaux of guineas. She took out fifty pounds in notes, thirty to return to the butler and twenty for herself. She did not want to be beholden to Will while she was at the Lamb House.
You're lying to yourself, Emma Stanley. You're still afraid of being in any man's power, aren't you?
No. She wasn't afraid of Will. She wasn't. She trusted him. And she'd promised not to run from him.
It was just that, with money of her own, she could make her own choices. Wasn't it?
Chapter Twenty-One
"Mrs Smith's carriage is at the door, m'lady." The footman was holding the bookroom door for her. It was exactly eight o'clock.
Emma rose from the desk and picked up her reticule. The strongbox key was at the bottom of it, strung onto a piece of ribbon and wrapped in a handkerchief. She hadn't been able to bring herself to leave such a precious key loose in the drawer. Not when she knew that she could be out of the house for days on end.
"My valises?" she demanded loftily.
"Miss Bailey directed me to put them in the carriage, m'lady," the man said.
With a tiny nod of thanks, Emma made her way out. When the footman opened the door, Emma saw that Sanding was waiting by the carriage, ready to hand her in. Another glance showed the simpleton groom on the box, holding the reins. The poor fellow was in exactly the same slouching posture as before. Maybe his back was deformed as well as his tongue? Emma resolved to ask Will about the man's history.
I will, once I'm cool, calm and collected enough to make rational conversation.
Her mouth went dry at the thought of what she and Will might be about to do. Very little of it was likely to be rational. And none of it would be cool or calm, either.
"Good evening, Lady Emma." Sanding touched his forelock, navy style, and offered his hand.
"Thank you." The words came out as a strangled croak. Emma allowed him to help her in, glad she'd been alert enough to avoid using his name. It was the kind of unusual name that her servants might remember, a
nd gossip about. Someone, in some other household, might well know that Will May All had a body servant called Sanding. And two and two could quickly make a very dangerous four.
Someone – probably Bailey, in spite of her irritation at being left behind – had provided a hot brick for Emma's feet. But as far as Bailey knew, this was to be a very short journey. A hot brick was over the top, surely?
Maybe Bailey's antennae had been twitching more than Emma realised.
She shrugged and settled back into her seat as the carriage moved smoothly off. Too late now. There was absolutely nothing Emma could do about Bailey and her clever insights until this visit to "the invalid Mrs Smith" was over.
By the time the crunch of wheels on gravel warned Emma that she was arriving at the Lamb House, she knew she was in danger of dissolving into a puddle of lust as soon as she tried to move. Just seeing Will waiting by the carriage steps would do it. She was going to spend days alone with Will Allmay – most of it in his bed, probably – and she couldn't think beyond that. She vaguely recalled that there were certain important tasks she needed to do while she was at the Lamb House. She told herself she would deal with them. Later. Once she was able focus coherently. Beyond the memory of being lifted into Will's arms.
The carriage door opened. Cold air rushed in. And disappointment. For Will wasn't waiting to lift her down and crush her in his arms. Sanding stood alone by the step. Very properly offering only a hand.
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and stepped down. "Thank you, Sanding." She glanced round as nonchalantly as she could. There was no sign of Will. "I had thought your master might be here to welcome me." She was miffed and she didn't care if it showed. The blasted man was taking her for granted. She wasn't going to allow that.
A moment ago, I was all set to dissolve into his arms. Now I'm cross and longing to slap him. What is it with me and my moods?
Sanding shrugged. "If your ladyship will excuse me, I'll drive the carriage to the stables and see to your luggage." Without waiting for a reply, he climbed back up onto the box and drove off, abandoning Emma in the middle of the gravel sweep. How dare he be so rude? She might be the master's latest squeeze, but she was a lady and a guest at this house all the same.
She realised with a start that she wasn't alone. The simpleton must have climbed down while she was dealing with Sanding. The big groom was standing at the foot of the steps to the porch. Even though his disreputable tricorne was pulled low on his forehead, Emma sensed that he was gazing at her. Avidly.
She was Lady Emma Groatster. She didn't have to put up with such indignities. She might excuse the groom – he was dumb and simple and probably knew no better – but she would not excuse Will's rudeness. Will Allmay was about to get a piece of her mind.
Emma stuck her nose in the air, and marched up the steps to the open front door. She ignored the groom completely.
"Hoity-toity," said a voice behind her.
She swung round so quickly she caught her heel in her heavy cloak and staggered. Strong arms caught her and set her safely on her feet. "Careful, leddyship. Ye wouldn't want to be fallin' into the arms o' the loikes o' me, now would ye?" Will's yokel accent was a travesty. It wouldn't fool anyone. Least of all Emma.
He caught her wrist as she made to slap him. With his free hand, he removed his sweaty tricorne so that she could see his laughing face.
"You, you—"
He carried her hand to his lips and kissed it, letting his lips linger suggestively on her skin. Without lifting his head, he looked up at her through his lashes. His eyes were sparkling with mischief. Will Allmay was enjoying himself hugely, the ratbag.
"That was you, on the box, all the time," Emma raged. "And you had the cheek to have Sanding tell me you were dumb." She pulled her hand out of his and punched him as hard as she could. The blow made no impression at all, which annoyed her even more. "He was so convincing, he had me feeling sorry for you, you great lummox."
"Thank you for that, my sweet," Will said in his normal voice. He replaced his hat and patted it into place. "If I managed to fool you, there's a fair chance that I fooled everyone else as well. Which was my intention."
"Oh."
"Did you really think I would allow you to be driven back to London, in the dark, with only Sanding to protect you? Shame on you, love. You should know me better than that."
Yes, she should. But at this precise moment, she was too overcome to say a word.
Will offered his arm. "May I escort your ladyship into the house?"
His formality helped her to regain a little of her normal composure. She took a deep breath, stepped back and looked him up and down. His coat was a disgrace, torn and smelly. And as for that hat—
She knocked it off his head with a backhand worthy of a Wimbledon finalist. "I will accept your escort, my dear sir," she announced primly, "when you are dressed as befits the gentleman you used to aspire to be." She sniffed theatrically and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Perhaps Sanding did not like to mention that you smell?"
He threw back his head and laughed heartily. When he could speak again, he said, still grinning, "Like a sewer, I dare say. But that is easily remedied." He pulled off his enormous coat and dropped it on the step. He was wearing simple clothes underneath, but they were not torn. And a quick sniff told her they weren't smelly, either. Dressed like that, he could be a respectable yeoman farmer.
The way he was looking at her was not respectable at all.
He put his arm around her waist without a by your leave. "Enough of this funning, Emma." His voice seemed to have dropped at least an octave. "Come, my love. Come inside. I need you." He dropped a tiny kiss on her lips.
The man was temptation incarnate. Her body swayed towards him, eager for one more touch.
He smiled down into her eyes. His voice became merely a thready whisper. "And if I am not mistaken, my sweet, the need is mutual."
~ ~ ~
Emma had no idea how long she had slept for. She lay on her back, staring up at the blue bed canopy. Her body was so heavy and sated that she couldn't summon enough energy to move a muscle. She had supped with Will, laughed with Will, frolicked with Will – on the rug before the fire, on the sofa, and finally in his green-hung bed – and then he had brought her here to be alone for a space. To sleep. He needed her to be well rested, he said. For he planned to return for her very soon. Then he'd faked a rakish leer that made her laugh. And had her insides turning somersaults.
Surely men weren't supposed to have that much stamina? The blue pill was a twentieth-century invention. But whatever the Regency equivalent might be, Will Allmay had it. Plus the ability to delight a woman in a thousand different ways. Oh yes – when it came to love-making, Will Allmay had it all.
He said it was because of me.
He said I was the only woman who had ever affected him in that way.
He said it was because he loved me.
Will had said a great many things while he was exploring her body with his fingers and his lips and his tongue. Emma had been too far gone to remember most of them. But she hadn't missed that fervent declaration of love. She had believed it at the time. Did she still?
How could she? If Will Allmay loved Emma, then why was he going to marry Patience Sinclair-Smythe?
Emma had no answer to that. Only Will could supply the answer. And Emma couldn't possibly ask him for it.
She sighed. Her bubbling happiness had evaporated at thoughts of Patience and the loveless marriage she had mapped out for Will.
But she hasn't got him yet. I have him. For now, at least. She punched the pillow, wishing it was Patience's face. Childish, but satisfying.
What time was it? There was no clock in this bedroom so she had no real idea. It was either very late or very early. She found herself yawning. She ought to go back to sleep. That was why Will had carried her in here after all; so that she could sleep, alone, and in peace.
To be ready for their next bout of horizontal athlet
ics.
Emma found herself giggling like an idiot at the modern vulgarity of her thoughts. It was something of a miracle that, whenever she spoke as Lady Emma, the words formed themselves into perfect, and perfectly polite, Regency sentences. Somehow the cruder twenty-first century speech patterns never made it out of her mouth. She doubted that Will, or anyone else in the Regency, would be able to cope with some of the expressions modern women used. She had a sudden vivid memory of the famous Ascot scene from the film of My Fair Lady when Eliza Doolittle shocked the cream of Edwardian society by shouting something very unladylike as she urged her horse on. Eliza's gaffe was pretty tame, though. Just: "Move your bloomin' arse!"
That, though shocking in the early twentieth century, would raise no eyebrows in the twenty-first, where effing and blinding was commonplace. But, in the Regency, no such words could ever pass a lady's lips. And no gentleman would ever utter them in front of a lady.
She closed her eyes, hoping to drift off again. Her bed was soft and voluptuous. Like a sultan's couch? No, that wasn't a good image. Will wasn't a sultan and Emma wasn't one of his concubines. She breathed deeply, trying to think of more appropriate images. Lovers lying on an Indian Ocean beach, maybe?
Why were all her thoughts exotic, and sultry?
Perfume.
She hadn't consciously noticed it before, but there was a definite perfume in the blue bedchamber. More of Will's doing, no doubt. She inhaled deeply, trying to place it. It was rich and sensuous, the sort of scent that conjured up images of oriental gardens with tinkling fountains and tables piled high with sherbets and fruit.
Mango!
For once, Will wasn't to blame. Emma was.
All her lethargy gone, she leapt out of bed and scrambled across to the fireplace. In her haste, she made a pig's ear of trying to bend one of her hairpins into a hook, and had to make a second one. Eventually, and with much swearing under her breath, she managed to prise up the end of the floorboard.
The mango might have been under-ripe when she tucked it into the hole, but it must be absolutely perfect now, judging by the scent that billowed out into the room. She eased the fruit out of its place. And then the sapphire earring from underneath. She put that with the strongbox key, wrapped carefully in the handkerchief at the bottom of her reticule.
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 19