by Regina Scott
Emily froze, heart pounding. What would he do, knowing he’d been caught? What would he say? Her fingers went to the curls at the side of her straw bonnet as if they needed some anchor.
Or wanted her to primp.
“Say something,” Daphne hissed. “You’re so brave. Confront him.”
Emily knew she should. She was the daughter of the duke, after all. She should stand tall, demand that he come out, order the thief to explain himself. She’d had no trouble telling Lord Robert how she felt in the withdrawing room that morning. Why couldn’t she open her mouth now?
The bushes rustled again, more forcefully this time, and Emily took a step back. Her fingers clutched Daphne’s arm so tightly, she thought she might break Daphne’s bones. Daphne was just as frozen.
“I cannot recall Lord Snedley discussing the finer points of stalking a gentleman through the park,” she whispered to Emily. “What shall we do?”
Something large and powerful shifted its weight, and Emily sucked in a breath. Eyes wide, Daphne removed Emily’s fingers from her arm and dropped a curtsy.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said to the bush. “Have we met?”
Emily stared at her.
Mr. Cropper was not nearly so civil. He growled! Emily took another step back in alarm, pulling Daphne with her. The bushes were shoved aside, and before Emily could cry out, a furry body launched itself at them. The creature hit Daphne in the chest, tearing her away from Emily as Daphne careened backward to land on her rump in the dirt of the path.
Emily rushed to her rescue, but it was too late. Daphne surrendered herself to a very wet kiss.
“Down!” she commanded, and the Airedale obediently climbed off her and lay down at her side. An elderly footman who had obviously been taking the dog for a walk hurried up, red-faced.
“I’m so sorry, miss. He slipped the leash. Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Daphne said, accepting his hand to allow her to rise. “Dogs love me. A shame I can’t say the same about the gentlemen.”
Emily shook her head. Her hand was on her chest, and she felt her heart still pounding its wild beat. Glancing around, she saw no sign of the mysterious Mr. Cropper.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t catch him, or Lord Robert, the next time. It seemed they needed more cunning to catch the fox in the eight short days left to them.
The next step in their investigation, according to Ariadne, was to interview Lord Robert’s servants. Emily didn’t have much hope there, as she hadn’t even been let into the Townsend town house. Besides, there was a question of loyalty.
No, it would be better to question someone well-versed in the ways of society, someone who had the ear of servants and aristocracy alike, someone she trusted.
In a word, Warburton.
7
Sinful Gossip
“Have you heard any rumors about the Townsends?” Emily asked her butler that evening as Warburton served her dinner on a silver tray in the quiet of her room. His Grace had been called to dine with the prime minister, and Emily abhorred sitting alone in the elegant dining room, eating at one end of the big empty damask-draped table.
Warburton seemed to sense her discomfort, for he went out of his way to place a tasseled pillow at her back where she sat on a black-and-white-striped satin chair near the cozy fire and to set a black satin footstool with gold fringe at her feet. His brows drew together as he straightened from placing a damask napkin across her lap.
“Rumors about the Townsends?” he responded at last, picking up the book she had been reading before he entered and gazing at the spine as if he was fascinated by the topic of a young lady’s adventure in a cursed castle. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, your ladyship.”
She took the book from his hands and laid it aside, refusing to let him get away so easily. “Couldn’t say or won’t? If you will not tell me, Mr. Warburton, I will imagine the worst.” Her silver fork flashed as she picked it up. “Does Lord Robert beat his servants?”
Warburton drew himself up. “Certainly not. You must remember—they serve his brother, and the present Lord Wakenoak would not countenance such behavior toward the staff, even though he has been a bit lax in paying them.”
Emily selected a piece of choice lamb and chewed slowly. So Lord Robert’s brother stiffed the staff. Reprehensible, but nothing she could lay at Robert’s door. Unless their lack of funds had something to do with his behavior. She swallowed and cocked her head. “I fear Lord Robert gambles.”
“Likely less than his father before him.”
That was most unhelpful. She had no idea how much the former Lord Wakenoak had enjoyed the cards.
“Did his father gamble a great deal?”
“Perhaps more than is generally considered wise.”
Interesting, she thought, using her fork to toy with her dilled carrots. Too bad Warburton’s tidbit offered her nothing in her quest to discredit Lord Robert. She eyed her butler as he towered over her. “Does Lord Robert keep a mistress?”
Warburton met her gaze by looking down his impressive nose. “That is not a conversation His Grace would want me to have with you.”
Her cheeks heated. He was quite right; it was a bold question. “But it is a conversation I must have,” she protested, wiggling on the satin seat, “if I am to understand Lord Robert.”
“Then I suspect it is a conversation you should have with Lord Robert.”
He had a point. How would Robert react if she mentioned the matter? She pictured his stunned look and grinned.
Of course, he could be no more stunned than Mary was when Emily began the same conversation with her maid later that night before bed.
Mary was dark-haired and darker-eyed and a little on the pale side, or perhaps Emily just terrified her. Mr. Phillips had confided that Mary had been His Grace’s upstairs maid in London until she agreed to take on extra duties while Emily was there. His Grace didn’t apparently see the need to hire Emily her own maid even though she was out of school. She could only hope that was not because he thought she was going to marry soon, and then it would be up to Lord Robert to see to all her needs.
“Rumors?” Mary said, fair skin turning even paler.
Perhaps if she didn’t look directly at the woman, Mary would be less nervous. Emily turned to let the maid unlace her quilted cotton corset. “Yes, rumors, stories. Gossip.”
“Well,” Mary said, busily pulling the cord through the holes in the back of the undergarment, “everyone seems quite glad Lord Robert has chosen to settle down.”
“Settle down from what?” Emily asked with a frown.
Mary’s fingers seemed to slow. “Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t say, your ladyship.”
Not her too. This would never do! “It’s quite all right to speak freely, Mary,” she said as gently as she could. “I won’t scold, I promise.”
Mary sighed as she finished with the corset and pulled it off, her breath brushing Emily’s bare shoulder. “It’s just that I want to do a good job for you, your ladyship. Being a lady’s maid has always been my dream.”
“I understand having a dream,” Emily said, turning to face her once again. “Lord Robert is currently threatening mine. So, please, tell me if you know. Why did he have to settle down?”
Mary clutched the corset to her chest and lowered her voice, as if afraid the silk-covered walls might overhear. “He was a wild fellow, your ladyship. The other servants were talking about how he had a girl in every village around the family’s country estate. Even dallied with a merchant’s daughter here in town and a married lady.”
Oh, the cad! Hadn’t she said he was up to no good? Emily could feel herself blushing just thinking about it.
Mary must have noticed that Emily had reddened, for the maid hurried to fetch her robe.
“Now, don’t you worry, your ladyship,” she said, draping the quilted satin around Emily’s shoulders. “He chose you, didn’t he? That proves he intends to do right.”
Perhaps. But it mi
ght also prove that he’d simply bowed to pressure from his family. What better way to turn respectable than to marry the daughter of an old family friend, particularly when she was the daughter of a duke? There was nothing more respectable than marrying the daughter of a duke. Yet why the hurry? Just how tame was Lord Robert Townsend now?
The thought kept Emily up late into the night. Unfortunately, Mary had handed her nothing she could use. Obviously His Grace knew all about Lord Robert’s reformation. He’d said he and Robert’s brother had only been waiting for Robert to change before announcing the wedding plans. So she still had nothing she could tell her father that would change his mind and save the ball.
And it wasn’t as if she cared who Robert had dallied with. She certainly didn’t want him to fall in love with her! But she’d thought, she’d hoped, that the man she married would see more in her than merely her father’s consequence and good name. Was it not possible that someone might enjoy her company, appreciate her art, want to be with her simply for herself ?
She finally rose, pulled on her painting smock, and went to her easel. She was itching to start another battle scene. She could just imagine all those feudal fighters in the colors of Lancaster and York. At least their roses weren’t pink.
She despised pink.
Truly, was there ever a more insipid color? It neither made the bold statement of red nor whispered the purity of white. Yet she was convinced that His Grace would be the happiest of all men if she wore nothing but that color. Pink, he seemed to think, was singularly feminine.
It was simply not her.
Candlelight flickering around the room, she set up the larger of the two seasoned canvases that Miss Alexander had sent with her to London and stood staring at the creamy surface before sketching out the basic scene. It would be a huge clash, the battle lines wavering, bodies strewn from here to the far horizon, her most glorious work yet. And maybe, in the foreground, a single trampled rose. She set to work laying it all out.
But she could not seem to concentrate on her painting either. She kept looking at the soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish their mothers were close by, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?
She did.
Emily set down her tools and reached for her locket, opening it for a moment to gaze at the tiny portrait inside. If only she could paint something of worth, something that would make Lady St. Gregory welcome Emily into the Royal Society with open arms. What could be finer than the company of other artists, people who thought like she did, people who understood and respected her? She could not let Lord Robert spoil that future for her. She would not.
She took a deep breath and got back to work.
8
On Bond Street Without a Chaperone
Late the next morning, Emily was trying to determine precisely how blood would pool around a decapitated body when the footman announced she had visitors. Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne were eager to hear what she’d learned from her servants, but Emily only agreed to tell them after they promised to pose for her battle scene.
She would have preferred to use the footmen. Unfortunately, the last time she’d asked, two had become so carried away that a Chinese vase had been damaged, and Warburton had asked her not to involve the staff again.
As it was, only Daphne could stand straight and valiant enough to do Emily any good as a model soldier (though she was pleased to discover that Ariadne made an excellent corpse). Priscilla insisted on playing a duchess watching from the edge of the battlefield. Emily pointed out that duchesses, or most dukes for that matter, seldom went to war, but Priscilla was adamant, so Emily let it go at that.
“So,” she said as she studied the angle of Daphne’s chin, “we know that Lord Robert Townsend has no money and likes the ladies all too well.”
“Definitely not hero material,” Ariadne said, raising her head into a patch of sunlight that turned her hair to gold.
Emily wanted to disagree, but she couldn’t, so she merely ordered Ariadne to lie back down like a good corpse.
“It isn’t enough,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “A great many people find themselves with less money than they’d like. That doesn’t make them criminals.”
“But how is Lady Emily to know?” Ariadne asked from the floor.
“An excellent question,” Emily replied. “Please forgive me, Ariadne, but I deviated from your plan. First thing this morning, I sent one of our footmen with a note asking if Lord Robert would come calling this afternoon. I thought perhaps I’d get him to take me to see the Parthenon Marbles.”
Ariadne smiled. “An excellent strategy. Draw him out.”
Emily sighed as she stroked her brush across the oil on her palette. “I thought so. Unfortunately, he already answered me. He is too busy today to assist me but will take me to see the Marbles tomorrow. The footman reported that Lord Robert must shop this morning, and this afternoon he will be preparing to attend the Marchioness of Skelcroft’s ball.”
“Well, I like that,” Priscilla scoffed, eyes narrowing. “He’s only too happy to attend a ball when it isn’t ours!”
“That seems most unfair,” Daphne agreed.
“He must have some reason,” Ariadne insisted. “Could the marchioness be the married lady with whom he’d dallied?”
Emily’s hand jerked, smearing her stroke. She set the brush and palette down before she could do more damage. “I suppose I shall have to ask him.”
Ariadne’s eyes widened, and even Priscilla looked impressed, hurrying out of her pose at the edge of the thick carpet.
Daphne shook her head. “But you can’t. You don’t even have a chaperone.”
“Yes, whatever happened to your aunt Minerva?” Priscilla asked, moving to Emily’s side and frowning at the painting.
“Warburton insists that she is expected any day, but I have my doubts. Why would she come to London with the prospect of a new baby to cuddle? No, I simply cannot wait for her company to ask Lord Robert. I cannot wait even until tomorrow. We only have seven days. I must act now.”
“Well,” Priscilla said, “we can’t get ourselves invited to the marchioness’s ball tonight, but if Lord Robert is currently out shopping, you can be certain where he’ll be at some point or other.”
Ariadne and Daphne nodded. “Bond Street,” they chorused.
And that was how they all arrived on Bond Street, in search of Lord Robert.
Warburton hadn’t protested when Emily mentioned that the four of them would be together in the most famous shopping district in London on this sunny day. He’d even volunteered the carriage again. Emily’s nose was once more to the glass of the carriage’s windowpane as Mr. Phillips maneuvered the horses down Brooke Street and out into the bustling crowds along New Bond Street.
Fashionable shops hugged the street, their front windows displaying all manner of wonders, from satins that caught the light in a rainbow of colors to cakes topped with sugared plums. Everywhere strolled ladies in feathered hats, gentleman in shining boots. Maids with parasols and footmen laden with packages followed at a respectable distance, while children in tattered clothes darted among them, offering to hold horses, begging for coins.
“There!” Daphne cried, and Emily jumped. Following the line of her friend’s finger, she saw a certain tall, russet-haired gentleman just coming out of Number 13.
“That’s Gentleman Jackson’s,” Ariadne said. “You know, the Boxing Emporium where gentlemen go to learn fisticuffs.” She whispered this knowingly, sitting at the very edge of the cushioned seat.
Emily found it hard to imagine Lord Robert taking a punch to the jaw, but perhaps he was quick enough that he did more of the punching himself. He certainly didn’t seem any the worse for wear as he paused to tip his hat to a particularly pretty woman. Emily rapped on the panel overhead to get Mr. Phillips’s attention and directed him to let them out at the next corner. But the mome
nt they set their boots to the pavement, Daphne seized Emily and Ariadne by an arm and dragged them into the recessed doorway of a linen draper’s shop.
“Priscilla,” she hissed, “quick, or he’ll see you!”
Priscilla slipped into the shadows with them. “Why are we hiding?” she asked as a group of young Hussars strolled by, the gold braid of their uniforms winking in the light. “The entire point of shopping on Bond Street is to see and be seen.”
“The point in shopping today is to learn more about Lord Robert,” Emily said. “Which will be a bit difficult in here.”
“I cannot imagine why this works in books,” Ariadne muttered, shifting to keep her elbow out of Emily’s stomach. “It’s quite uncomfortable.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want anyone to notice us following him,” Daphne said. “I’d like a reputation as a lady.” She paused to peer out. “Oh, it’s all right. He’s moved on.”
They spilled back onto the pavement in time to see Lord Robert strolling south toward Conduit Street. Emily tugged down the edges of her midnight blue quilted jacket and smoothed the wrinkles from her softer blue gown. “I appreciate your zeal, Daphne, but as I do wish to speak to him, I rather have to let him see me.”
Daphne blushed. “Sorry.” She absently adjusted her green wool pelisse as well, stroking over the jade braiding of the long, fitted coat as if her hands needed something to do. Priscilla and Ariadne were also tweaking their pale muslin skirts or straightening a bit of lace across their shoulders. Anyone would think they’d come to speak to Lord Robert too!
With a shake of her head, Emily started after him. The sweet smell of baking cakes vied with the scent of lavender from the perfumery next door, but she fancied she smelled the tang of cloves over it all. Then she spotted him just ahead. He had stopped at a bow window and stood looking at the merchandise displayed therein. His head was cocked, as if whatever he contemplated required his complete concentration.
“That’s Stedman and Vardon,” Priscilla whispered over the rumble of passing carriages as the four of them ventured closer. “Jewelers to the aristocracy.”