Art and Artifice

by Regina Scott

  Emily blinked back tears. “Thank you, your ladyship.”

  Lady St. Gregory inclined her head. “I give praise where it is due. I believe we have room for an artist of your caliber in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. What do you say?”

  Emily stared at her. Then, seeing the truth in the woman’s broad smile, she broke into a grin herself. “I’d say thank you very much, your ladyship. I’d be honored!”

  Her delight lasted only as long as it took for Lady St. Gregory to give her the particulars of the next meeting. Then her stomach began to squirm again. Her gaze swept the room, searching. Priscilla was on the dance floor with a tall, buck-toothed fellow Emily could only guess was the mighty Duke of Rottenford. Beyond them, Ariadne had cornered the famous playwright Mr. Sheridan and was happily quizzing him on his life in the theatre. Not far away, Daphne was chatting with several young gentlemen, all of whom seemed quite impressed by a lady who could climb out a window and perch on a ledge in her ball gown.

  But then Emily saw him, standing by the doors to the veranda. The glow from the bees wax candles in the crystal chandeliers overhead glinted off his russet hair.

  He caught her gaze on him and raised two fingers to his forehead. Then he disappeared out the doors.

  Emily followed.

  He was waiting in the moonlight. “Everything all right, then?”

  Not in the slightest, but she nodded. “Yes. Thank you for saving my life. Another fine job for Bow Street.”

  He shrugged. “Such is the life of a Runner. You understand now why I couldn’t give you all the particulars of this case. Mr. Haversham contacted Bow Street after he found that his daughter’s jewels had been converted to paste. Then other jewels began going missing, only to appear again later, and those I could have tested all ended up paste as well. The only connection between the cases was Lord Robert.”

  She nodded again. Where were her good intentions? She wanted to stand here, drinking in the sight of him, talking to him about anything, everything. “So you came in disguise tonight hoping to catch him.”

  “In part,” he said. “But in truth, I had to come.”

  Emily made a face. “I suppose I did sound rather cryptic in my note. I didn’t want to tell you that I planned to expose him. I wanted you to see it, to know that I . . .”

  He strode to her side and took her hands in his, bending his head as if to see inside her. “You what, Lady Emily?”

  She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. Did a lady simply blurt out that she was in love? Once, perhaps, but surely she’d gathered some sophistication since arriving in London.

  “I wanted to know what you meant by your note about the ball,” she said instead. “There was the little matter of an L.”

  “An L?” He sounded surprised.

  “An L,” she insisted. “Just before your initials. I could not determine what it meant.”

  He was quiet for a moment, which she knew meant he was choosing his words with care. Finally, he said, “Most people would take it as a time notation, placed as it was next to the nine. L for later.”

  “Ah,” she said, feeling foolish. “Of course.”

  “A few, however,” he continued, a smile in his voice, “might take it as a description. L for longingly.”

  “Oh,” she said, heartbeat speeding.

  “And the bold ones,” he finished, leaning closer and lowering his voice, “might take it one step further. Let’s say, L for lovingly.”

  Emily swallowed. “I’ve been known to be bold.”

  “I would have wagered my life on it.” He straightened and let go of her hands. “And that’s why I had to come to the ball, Emily. The other night, at the dinner party when I thought I’d lost you to Lord Robert, I lashed out. Forgive me.”

  “You had a right,” she protested. “I hadn’t realized that I was using you. I just wanted to catch him so badly.”

  “We shared that goal from the first,” he said. “I suppose I wanted to see him punished, to see his family punished.”

  Emily laid a hand on his. “Because of what they did to your mother. I know. I heard the rumors. I’m so sorry, Jamie, that neither of you was ever given your due.”

  He shrugged again, and this time she thought it cost him something. “Odd how that matter seems to have settled itself in my mind,” he murmured. “After a time, it wasn’t Lord Robert that moved me. It was you. I know the gulf between us. I can offer you nothing. But whatever happens from here on out, you deserve to know that I love you.”

  The words danced upon the air, bathed her in joy even as the moonlight bathed his face, so solemn, so intent. Inside, the musicians struck up a waltz. The sound floated over them, lilting. Her heart floated right along with it.

  “Thank you, Jamie,” she murmured. “And you deserve to know that I love you too.”

  His smile captured her heart and held it gently. “Dance with me?”

  She nodded, too full to speak. He curled his long fingers around hers and rested his other hand above her waist. It was as if he held her in his embrace. Her hand trembled as she placed it on his broad shoulder. His gaze caressed her face, as if memorizing every line, every curve.

  And they began to move in time to the music, backward, forward, turn. She knew the steps. The last time she’d practiced them, she’d been partnering Daphne.

  This was nothing like partnering Daphne.

  His touch was sure, his steps smooth. She was constantly aware of how close he was, how near their bodies. His arm brushed her chest as they moved; her cheek grazed his as they turned. With his gaze on hers, she felt more beautiful than Priscilla, more graceful than Daphne on horseback, as brilliant as Ariadne. She knew there was nothing she couldn’t do.

  She never wanted the music to stop, but stop it did. His steps slowed, and she slowed as well, sliding her fingers down his strong arm. He caught them with his and brought both of her hands to his chest, tender, reverent. Mesmerized, she willed him to bend closer, to bridge the distance between his lips and hers.

  And he did.

  She closed her eyes, let herself feel the sweet pressure. Time seemed to stop, to stretch. When he drew back, he sounded as breathless as she felt.

  “You should go in,” he murmured with a touch to her cheek. “They’ll all be looking for you.”

  She didn’t want to go, not now, not ever. She just wanted to be here, with him. But that couldn’t be. Not just yet. It seemed she’d traded the perilous passion for her painting for another passion.

  Him.

  “When will I see you again?” she asked.

  His smile was a promise. “Soon. I won’t lose you.”

  She smiled back. “Then, until later, Jamie.”

  He grinned. “Until later, Emily.”

  She held his hand a moment longer, then stepped away from him to return to the ball. They had proved themselves victorious over theft, scandal, murder, and Priscilla’s goldfish. Surely she and Jamie would find a way to be together. Surely this passion she felt for him would endure. Surely there would be other dances, other kisses. Some might even be better than this.

  She could only dream.

  The End

  From the Author

  Thank you for choosing Art and Artifice. Please know that Emily and Jamie’s story doesn’t end here. There’s a wedding in their future; they just have some things to work out first, and you can follow along with their courtship in the other Lady Emily Capers books. If you enjoyed their story, there are several things you could do now:

  Sign up for a free e-mail alert with exclusive bonus content so you’ll be the first to know whenever a new book is out.

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  Post a review on a bookseller site or Goodreads to help other readers find the book.

  Read more about our intrepid sleuth, Lady Emily Southwell. She and her friends Priscilla Tate and Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas have other adventures ahead. If you missed the first book, which int
roduced Lady Emily and her friends and the mysterious happenings at Brentfield Manor, be sure to look for Secrets and Sensibilities. Turn the page for a sneak peak of Book 3 of the Lady Emily Capers, Ballrooms and Blackmail, available now.

  Blessings!

  Regina Scott

  From Ballrooms and Blackmail, by Regina Scott

  “What’s wrong?” Lady Emily Southwell cried when Priscilla burst in on her late that afternoon. She set down her artist’s pallet and brush and wiped the bit of dark oil paint from her fingers onto the canvas smock covering her gown.

  Priscilla found her tongue tied in shock. She wasn’t surprised Emily would care. They had been true friends for far too long. She wasn’t even surprised to find Emily painting. Emily was, after all, a talented artist who had recently joined that pinnacle of the art world, the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. Priscilla was merely stunned to learn exactly what Emily was painting.

  Or rather who.

  James Cropper of the Bow Street Runners stood tall and confident, the polished oak of his staff of office in one hand, russet hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window.

  “I thought you despised painting portraits,” Priscilla whispered as Emily pulled off her smock and stepped away from the canvas where Jamie’s likeness was slowly forming.

  Emily’s skin turned rosy. “Father requested it.”

  After Emily had suggested it, no doubt. Priscilla knew her friend was enamored of the handsome young detective, but surely Emily understood the flirtation was fruitless. Whoever heard of a duke’s daughter marrying a Bow Street Runner?

  “That will be all for today, Jam . . . Mr. Cropper,” Emily said, dark curls bouncing as she nodded. Her maid Mary, a plump older woman, rose from a chair at the far side of the room as if to offer escort out.

  Mr. Cropper did not look displeased by his dismissal. He probably didn’t relish standing so still for the hours it would take for Emily to paint him. Odd that he could find the time away from his duties, although Priscilla supposed that even Bow Street might be willing to acquiesce to a duke’s request.

  “Miss Tate,” he said with a nod before turning to Emily. “Tomorrow at the same time?”

  “Please,” Emily said, blush deepening.

  His smile was positively wicked as he touched two fingers to his forehead. “Until later, then.”

  “Until later,” she murmured.

  As he quit the room with Mary at his heels, Priscilla stared at Emily. Her friend was glowing. Her usually pale skin had a becoming warmth about it, and there was no denying the light that shone in her dark eyes.

  “Oh, Emily,” Priscilla said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Emily raised her chin. “Don’t be. I find myself rather pleased with the whole situation.”

  For now. But what would her father say if he knew the true extent of his daughter’s feelings? Emily was headed for heartbreak, Priscilla feared, if her secret love became known.

  The thought brought her own circumstances thundering back to her. “Forgive the interruption,” she said, her limbs beginning to tremble, “but I must have your help. Something dreadful has happened.” She fished the note from her beaded reticule and handed it to Emily. “I just found this in my pocket.”

  Emily frowned as she angled the scrap of parchment to the light as if to read it easier. Priscilla felt a chill remembering the stiff writing.

  I no yer secrit. Stay away from the duke or else.

  Buy now to continue reading.

  About the Author

  Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has over two dozen published works of warm, witty romance.

  She and her husband of more than 25 years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet, and is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene.