by Regina Scott
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1 - To London at Last
2 - Thief!
3 - A Handsome Devil
4 - He Must Be Up to Something
5 - To Squander One’s Dowry on Fripperies
6 - A Duchess Never Drives in Puce
7 - Sinful Gossip
8 - On Bond Street Without a Chaperone
9 - No Place for a Lady
10 - Pearls of Wisdom
11 - Stunned as a Statue
12 - Forbidden Flirtations
13 - They’re All Mad!
14 - Crisp Cotton and Chamomile
15 - Art and Artifice
16 - The Frill of the Chase
17 - To Dally in a Dark Alley
18 - Dining with the Enemy
19 - The Rules of Engagement
20 - Shattered Dreams
21 - White Flags of Surrender
22 - What Kind of Hermit Wanders Around Ballrooms?
23 - Jewel Thieves Prefer the Night
24 - Three Meanings of the Letter “L”
La Petite Four
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,
Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2008 Regina Lundgren
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
eISBN : 978-1-4406-3282-2
To the Lord, for inspiration and encouragement
To my Emily and my Larry, for believing in me
To Jessica and Lexa for working so hard
To the ever-supportive Kris for brainstorming, Lord Snedley,
and blood pooling about decapitated bodies
And to library staff everywhere, especially Marsha Bates
of the Mid-Columbia Library and John Charles of the
Scottsdale Public Library, who point us to books that teach,
enrich, and set us to dreaming of all we can be
1
To London at Last
Lady Emily Southwell, trained from birth to be the refined daughter of a duke, did the unthinkable. She hoisted the soft blue of her skirts, slipped out of the Barnsley School Grand Salon to leave the remaining seven members of the graduating class to their celebration, and ran. The sounds of their laughter echoed behind her, calling her to return, to accept their well wishes, to accept her dismal future.
She refused. She would not let them witness the depths of her vast disappointment.
And she could not let Lord Robert find her.
She dashed down the school’s main corridor, the slap of her amethyst-colored satin slippers against the polished floor nearly as loud as the gasp of her breath. Paneled doorways and soaring arches whipped past. Paintings of sweeping landscapes and dark myths framed in heavy gilt were little more than a blur, even Miss Martingale’s favorite, The Fall of Man.
A rather inferior piece, really. Emily could do better.
A voice cried behind her, calling her name. Emily didn’t dare turn to see who it was. As long as she pretended she didn’t know her fate was waiting downstairs, she was free.
She rounded the corner, flew up the short flight of marble stairs, and ducked into the sunny bedchamber she’d shared the last few years with her three dearest friends, Priscilla Tate and Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas. The sounds of the elegant soiree faded away, but Miss Martingale’s terrible announcement still rang in Emily’s ears.
How could it have come to this? They had waited years for this day, when they completed their education at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies and went to London. The old brick building had never looked so festive, adorned with laurel wreaths, gold-trimmed draperies, and banners welcoming their distinguished guests. All eight members of the graduating class had been equally adorned in their best silks, as bright as the tulips planted along the drive.
Except for Emily, of course. She’d worn dark blue.
Then, in what should have been Emily’s proudest moment, their headmistress had announced the winner of the Prize in Art, a prize Emily had longed for since her first day at the esteemed school. How could she have lost, and to Acantha Dalrymple of all people?!
She yanked the white satin sash off her shoulder. What did graduation matter if she was not acknowledged? Who cared for congratulations, spiced punch and cakes, fond remembrances of the past eight years, when her future was entirely blighted?
Or would be, if she didn’t leave. Now.
Her green wool traveling gown lay spread on the four-poster bed, but no maid stood ready to help. They were all downstairs, working at the celebration for the parents and well-wishers. It was all up to her, then. She reached behind her and tugged at the tapes that held her gown shut, fingers slipping on the soft material. Oh, why did everything have to be difficult!
“Here, let me,” Daphne said, hurrying into the room. Her breath came easily, unlike Emily’s, and not a honey-colored hair was out of place. Emily had once painted her as Artemis, goddess of the hunt, all rousing good cheer. Daphne’s mother had taken exception to the diaphanous robes and insisted that Emily paint on a high-necked bombazine gown instead. Who ever heard of Artemis riding to the hunt in bombazine?
But Daphne did not seem to appreciate her height and athletic abilities. To ensure a successful Season, she’d turned to etiquette books the last few weeks before graduation and memorized Lord Pompadour Snedley’s Guide to London’s Beau Monde, illustrated and annotated.
Emily turned and felt Daphne’s strong fingers make quick work of the troublesome tapes. “Priscilla is speaking to her father,” her friend reported as she worked, “and Ariadne will be along shortly. What more do you need?”
“My half boots,” Emily replied, kicking off her slippers as she shrugged out of the muslin. “And where is my travel case?”
“I’ll find it,” the younger Ariadne volunteered as she entered in a rush of pale pink skirts, breath a gasp, darker curls wilting around her face. Though she and Daphne were only eleven months apart, they had little in common in looks or abilities other than a kind temper
ament and Emily’s friendship. In fact, Ariadne always reminded Emily of a canary—small, round, bright, and inquisitive—just the sort of encouragement one needed on a rainy day.
Or when one’s life had ended before it had begun.
Daphne slipped the traveling gown over Emily’s head. The warm folds slid down her body, but still she felt chilled. As the wool settled around her, she plucked out her locket from the top of her chemise and laid the gold oval on the wool, the familiar touch steadying her.
Emily peered into the dressing table mirror long enough to run her fingers through her hair. Not that it mattered. Her black hair was more frizzy than curly, and the frizz was always worse in the rain. They had a lot of rain in England. And her features were too angular for her to be called beautiful. She’d seen too many portraits to think otherwise.
“It truly is unfair,” Daphne said as she came to finish the fastenings. “You should have won the prize.”
Emily took one look at Daphne’s warm smile in the mirror and felt her eyes grow hot and scratchy. Yes, she should have won; she’d done everything to win the Barnsley Prize in Art. But crying wouldn’t help. She’d cried enough when her mother had died eight years ago; it hadn’t brought her mother back. Besides, Emily would much rather solve a problem than cry over it.
Which was why she had to get to London and see her father— His Grace, the Duke of Emerson.
“Your valise,” Ariadne announced, setting the leather-bound case on the bed. She frowned. “Why does your nightgown rattle?”
“Because those are my paint pots,” Emily replied, sitting to accept her leather half boots from Daphne, who opened the travel case to shove in the slippers. “I stuffed my nightclothes in my reticule. Speaking of which . . .”
“I’ll find it,” Daphne said, going to search the wardrobe for the little drawstring handbag.
Ariadne sat next to Emily, her blue eyes thoughtful. “None of the others who joined the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts won the Barnsley Prize, you know. Lady St. Gregory invited them based on their work. I’m sure it will be the same for you.”
“It will if I can persuade His Grace to dismiss these rumors of an engagement,” Emily promised her. “I cannot think what Lord Robert is about. He couldn’t be bothered to write over the last ten years since our parents spoke of us marrying, and yet he shows up today, bold as brass, and intends to carry me off without so much as a ‘by your leave’!”
“Well, it was only an offer to escort you to London,” Ariadne, ever the voice of reason, pointed out. “At least, that’s what Miss Martingale told Mother.”
Thank goodness she had, and thank goodness Ariadne had overheard and come straight to Emily as they were waiting in the Grand Salon after the graduation ceremony had ended. Otherwise, Emily would have been stuck in a carriage for the next two days with the arrogant fellow and would have no chance to beat him to her father to beg for a reprieve.
For what would she do if she found herself engaged so soon? Some girls would count it a triumph, but to her it would be a disaster. She had plans for her Season, plans that did not include dancing attendance on the loathsome Lord Robert. Without the Prize in Art to recommend her, she must convince Lady St. Gregory to invite her into the Royal Society. Oh, that she might breathe that rarified air, rub shoulders with London’s elite, see her paintings exhibited next to the best artists in all of England!
And worse, she might miss the ball! It would be just like him to insist upon it. Lord Robert had always been adept at getting his own way. As a child he had whined and sniffled and thrown tantrums for the least little refusal. If he had other plans, if he preferred his friends to hers, she would be stuck at his side with no chance to do any of the marvelous things she had planned.
“There, it’s done,” Priscilla announced, sailing into the room in a swirl of lavender lace. “Father has the carriage waiting. He was just as glad to escape before anyone could question him. Where did I put my traveling gown?”
“Here,” Daphne offered helpfully, tossing the heavy gray wool at her. Priscilla caught it and tsked at the rough handling of the embroidered gown but quickly set about undoing the lace confection she wore. She had no trouble with the tapes, Emily noticed. Priscilla rarely had trouble with anything. All she had to do was bat those golden lashes, toss those golden curls, and the world fell at Priscilla’s feet. It was equally unfair that she should have to run from graduation.
For Priscilla had her own reasons for fleeing the celebration going on downstairs. Like her father, she knew the dire consequences should their Dreaded Family Secret be revealed. She intended to give everyone something else to talk about by having the most elegant, exclusive ball that London had ever seen. The four girls had been planning it for months, going over every detail, dreaming of the moment they’d burst into Society and the world would be theirs.
Oh, why did Lord Robert Townsend have to spoil it!
“Hurry,” Emily begged Priscilla, gathering up her things. Daphne had found Emily’s reticule. The little bag was stretched out of proportion, bulging with her nightgown. She stuffed the crumpled lawn material down harder and yanked the cords of the bag tight.
“Stop fretting,” Priscilla said, fastening the elaborate black braid that closed her gown. “Miss Martingale is far too busy cozying up to Acantha Dalrymple’s father to bother about us. Besides, I had a vision last night for the ball.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward them. “Goldfish.”
Daphne, who had perched beside her sister on the bed, caught her breath as if Priscilla had imbued the word with mystic properties. Emily frowned. “Goldfish?”
“Indeed,” Ariadne piped up, pulling her journal and pencil from her reticule as if to record the moment. “Remember the Celebration Dinner with the Allies last year? The prince had streams meandering down the table and real goldfish.”
Trust Ariadne to remember. Her mind brimmed with everything she read: plays, pamphlets, poetry, prose.
Emily wrinkled her nose. “The Times reported the fish died halfway through dinner! I doubt the sight of rotting fish will do much to set the sophisticated tone you so desire, Pris.”
Priscilla sniffed. “I’m quite certain my fish would not be so vulgar as to die before the final course.” While Emily shook her head, Priscilla put on her straw bonnet. The glossy black feathers curled about one cheek. “There, all ready.”
Emily had no reason to delay, yet she could not make herself leave. Priscilla tugged at the braided collar of her traveling gown as if she couldn’t get it to sit properly. Daphne was swinging her full skirts against the side of the walnut bed as if she could not bear to set foot on the floor.
Adiadne cleared her throat. “I suppose you’d better go.”
They all stared at one another.
Then Daphne leaped off the bed and enveloped Emily in a hug. “We’ll send word the moment we reach London.”
Priscilla and Ariadne joined them, arms tangling. Memories flowed from their touch: Ariadne hiding with Emily under the covers with smuggled lemon drops, Daphne trying to teach Priscilla to fence with the fireplace poker, Priscilla crossing her eyes at Emily as they waltzed with the vicar’s ungainly twin sons. Once more Emily’s eyes felt hot, but how silly! It wasn’t the end; it was just the beginning!
Priscilla evidently thought the same, for she gave them all a squeeze. “Remember, we are La Petite Four, always together like matched cakes on a plate. The world will speak in reverent tones of the year Lady Emily Southwell, Priscilla Tate, and Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas made their debuts. You’ll see.”
“Where are you going?” a shrill voice demanded from the doorway.
Emily rolled her eyes, even as Daphne gave a muffled groan and Ariadne paled. Priscilla turned to face the vile creature who had tormented them all through school.
“Why, we’re off to London, of course, Acantha,” Priscilla said as if the girl were simple. “You’ll want to return downstairs and accept congratulations. I’m certain your father at
least is pleased you won back all the silly cups he paid for.”
Acantha’s thin lips tightened in her narrow face, and her long fingers smoothed over the engraved lettering on the cup she held. The Prize in Art! Emily fisted her hands to keep from ripping the thing from Acantha’s grasp.
“Well,” Acantha said, “I doubt I’d take so many of the cups if I hadn’t some modicum of talent.” She smiled as if she were genuinely sorry she was so talented and they were not.
Oh, how that smile lied.
“It does not signify,” Emily said, taking Priscilla’s arm and plowing forward so that Acantha was forced to pick up her spring green skirts and back out of the doorway. “We must go.”
“Running away, are you?” Acantha sneered, following them. “A shame you don’t dare face your beau without a cup in hand. I’d be delighted to entertain him in your absence.”
“Lord Robert Townsend is not my beau,” Emily informed her.
“Though I’m certain Lady Emily will be only too happy to leave you with her castoffs,” Priscilla said sweetly.
“At least I won’t be wearing castoffs this Season,” Acantha said, her free hand touching the perfect strand of Oriental pearls around her swanlike neck. They shone nearly as brightly as the hideous pomade she insisted on pouring over her lank brown hair.
Now Priscilla bristled. Oh, but Acantha was good at finding weaknesses! She poked and poked at you until she found the one place that hurt most.
Not today. Not anymore. “Pay her no heed,” Emily told Priscilla. “Nothing she says will stop us.”
“Oh, Miss Martingale!” Acantha sang out, high voice piercing the air. “Miss Martingale, Lady Emily is leaving!”
Very likely their headmistress could not hear Acantha, but Emily met Priscilla’s gaze and saw the same fear written there. They could not be caught, or Emily was trapped. And the longer Priscilla remained at Barnsley, the more likely someone was to ask questions that were better off never answered.
As one, they turned and ran, past the startled Acantha, past Ariadne and Daphne, who waved in encouragement, right down the servants’ stair to the ground floor.