by Regina Scott
“I wanted to assure myself that you heeded my warning,” he murmured, gazing down into her eyes. “You’ve stayed away from the worst parts of London, haven’t you?”
His gray eyes were fathomless, like looking up into the pale morning sky on a spring day. “Yes,” she allowed. “Though I’d like to think I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“Oh, no,” he replied, smile widening. “You’ve obviously outgrown the nursery.”
She wished she had a fan. Priscilla said it was best used to rap insolent fellows across the knuckles. Emily would have preferred to wave it frantically in front of her heated face.
As if he sensed her discomfort, he straightened away from her. “Have you seen your fiancé recently?”
The question should have been casual, simply polite conversation, but Emily heard more behind it. He wasn’t sure what Robert was about. Well, neither was she. She did think, however, that Mr. Cropper sounded just the wee bit vexed that she might have spent time alone with Lord Robert.
“I just returned from an outing with him,” she replied, reaching up to play with her locket. “I mentioned your name. He didn’t seem pleased to have made your acquaintance.”
“No doubt,” he said with a grin. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”
“Why?” she demanded. “You both are so sure I should avoid the other, yet neither of you will explain.”
“Perhaps it’s not our place to tell,” he said.
“That, sir, seems a handy excuse. Have you been following him? Is that why I keep running into you?”
“Perhaps we’ve merely been in the same neighborhoods.”
“London has far too many neighborhoods for it to be a coincidence. And you and Lord Robert do not look as if you keep the same company.”
He nodded. “And very likely wouldn’t if we could. That’s true enough.”
Emily threw up her hands. “Can you say nothing of any use to me?”
“Only that you look very fetching in that gray gown.”
The gown felt entirely too warm and tight. Emily shook her finger at him. “Charm will not save you, sir. I am immune to it. I swear that you and Lord Robert are a pair of coxcombs, entirely too full of yourselves to listen.”
He laughed, a deep chuckle she was certain she’d find warming under other circumstances. “Well, I’ve been accused of that often enough.”
“And have you been accused of theft, Mr. Cropper?”
She did not think he would answer honestly, no more so than Lord Robert had, but he pursed his lips as if giving the matter thought. “Can’t say as I have, your ladyship.”
“Perhaps it’s merely that you’re so good at evading capture,” Emily suggested.
The smile didn’t leave his face, drawing her closer. “Except by you,” he pointed out. “You seem to find me even when I don’t wish to be found. You’re a rare woman, Lady Emily Southwell.”
Heat flushed up her, and with it guilt. She should not have felt so warmed by his praise. “Thank you,” she murmured, fingers going to her locket once more.
He cocked his head. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
She cupped the oval with her hand, gazing down at the locket. She’d touched it so often, the gold was worn, its once bright sheen dulled. It was no less precious to her. “My mother left it to me so I wouldn’t forget her.”
His voice was soft. “You don’t strike me as the sort who forgets someone she loves.”
She shook her head. “I’m not. But after nine years, it’s easy to forget little things, like the way she drank tea or combed out her hair.” Her fingers were trembling, but she slid her nail under the edge and popped the locket open, turning it so he could see the miniature inside. “This is her.”
He looked at the tiny painting, really looked, not like some people who glanced at a piece and pronounced it interesting. “You favor her, I think. You have her smile.”
Emily felt her smile reappearing. “I like to think so.” She glanced up to find him regarding her as if for the first time. She lowered her gaze and snapped the locket shut.
“I should go,” he said, but he didn’t move from her side.
He should indeed. She had so many things to do in the next five days: prove Lord Robert had stolen Acantha’s pearls, finish her painting for the ball, determine what she should wear. But she couldn’t make herself agree.
“Perhaps you’ll answer me a question first,” she heard herself say.
His eyes narrowed. “Likely it depends on the question.”
Emily shook her head. “This should not be troublesome.” She touched two fingers to her forehead in imitation of the salute he’d given her. “Why do you do this?”
He glanced down at his hand as if surprised she’d noticed. Meeting her gaze, he said, “It’s an Irish gesture of respect.”
“Are you Irish, Mr. Cropper?”
He grinned. “Sure-n I learnt the movement at me mother’s knee, yer laidyship.”
Emily could not help grinning back. “Well, it’s quite charming.” “Oh, aye. Me mam is right proud of her Jamie, she is. Course the gesture gets a bit messy if I’ve been eat-n bread and jam. Can’t figure how to keep them strawberries out of me hair.”
She laughed. “You’d better stick with roasted chestnuts, then. You could hide any sign of them quite nicely.”
“So long as they didn’t singe me scalp.”
“Oh, you needn’t go so deep,” she assured him. “You could put several of them right here, and no one would know.” She wasn’t sure what possessed her, but she reached up to touch the wave of hair over his forehead. The chestnut curl was warm and soft.
The laughter faded from his eyes, replaced by an intensity that took her breath away. Emily let her hand fall even as she heard Warburton cough from the doorway.
“And you,” Jamie said softly, finger coming up to tweak the curls beside her ear, “you’d best not hide anything in that silky hair.”
Emily couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Mr. Warburton seemed to have developed consumption, he coughed so hard.
Jamie leaned closer, and for an insane moment she thought he intended to kiss her. Even more insane was her reaction. She closed her eyes and wished Mr. Warburton to perdition.
“You’re a fine woman, Lady Emily Southwell,” Jamie murmured, his breath a caress against her cheek. “You should find yourself a fine man for a husband.”
Something brushed against her temple, so soft she feared she had imagined it. It sent a tremor through her nonetheless. She opened her eyes, but Jamie was already striding for the door, which Warburton was holding wide for him, his gaze stern.
“Wait!” She took a step after him—to do what, she wasn’t sure.
Jamie turned, and his smile was sad. “There’s not much else can be said between us, my dear. But if you need me, you have only to look for me.” He gave her his salute one last time and left.
“I’ll see him out,” Mr. Warburton said.
Emily stood in the middle of the room, feeling as if the space had grown cold without Jamie Cropper in it. Would he let her be so familiar as to call him Jamie? Did she dare to ask?
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, the gown crinklingunder her fingers. Mary regarded her with wide eyes, as if afraid Emily would turn into a goose and fly out the window. Emily felt just as concerned about her behavior.
She wasn’t interested in courting just yet; she was going to spend her Season establishing herself as an artist. And if she were interested in courting, she certainly shouldn’t be making eyes at a fellow like James Cropper. She was the daughter of a duke. He was a . . . well, she wasn’t entirely certain what he was.
All she knew was that he was a cipher. One moment he was enforcing protection where she didn’t need it, the next trying to steal a kiss. One moment she wanted to shout at him, the next to kiss him back. All while she was engaged to Lord Robert!
Did anyone on earth understand this business with boys?
13
They’re All Mad!
“The first thing you must know about boys,” Priscilla said later that afternoon, “is that they are all mad.”
Emily could easily believe that as she sat across from Priscilla in the sitting room of the tiny house in a forgotten corner of Mayfair—the only house, it appeared, Priscilla’s father had been able to afford. The little room was far less opulent than the sitting room at His Grace’s town house. The furniture looked as if it had been picked from a number of rooms and thrown all together, with less than pleasing results.
“Completely illogical,” Priscilla continued, fingers curling around the worn gilt ends of her chair arm, which were shaped like lions’ heads. “Look at Lord Brentfield. What on earth would possess him to marry Miss Alexander of all people?”
“I like to think it was her art that impressed him,” Emily said, from her own chair, which was covered in scarlet ostrich plumes. “She’s very good, you know.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “A gentleman is seldom as impressed by a lady’s accomplishments as he is by her anatomy.”
Emily sighed. “I certainly hope you’re wrong, or I’m doomed, Pris.”
“No, you’re not,” Priscilla said immediately, straightening so that the pink satin ribbons decorating the front of her gown tumbled freely down the graceful skirt. “Because the only thing more impressive to a gentleman than a lady’s anatomy is her connections. You are the daughter of a duke, you know.”
“So you think that’s all Lord Robert cares about?” Emily rolled her eyes. “Perhaps your father can adopt me in time for me to attend the ball.”
Instead of laughing, Priscilla’s look darkened. “You do not wish to be a member of my family right now. Trust me on that score.”
Emily lowered her voice and glanced toward the door, where Mrs. Tate had only recently exited. “Are things still so bad?”
“Impossible,” Priscilla whispered back. “Mother keeps insisting that only the attendance of the Prince Regent at the ball will save us from disaster.”
“I doubt the prince will be much help,” Emily whispered back. “You’ll have better luck with your duke, whoever he may be!”
Priscilla brightened, but her smile lasted only long enough for her mother to return to the sitting room. Trailing behind Mrs. Tate and simpering obsequiously were Acantha Dalrymple and her mother.
Mrs. Dalrymple looked nothing like her daughter. Where Acantha was narrow and dark, as if even her physical nature were stingy, Mrs. Dalrymple was the epitome of overblown satisfaction. Her ample girth was encased in a stylish cambric gown of pale yellow. Her bonnet groaned under the weight of peacock feathers, silk sunflowers, and green satin ribbon. With her short quilted jacket of a deeper yellow, she resembled nothing so much as an overripe melon.
Though Mr. Dalrymple’s father had made his fortune in trade and the family had only recently joined the ranks of the Beau Monde, Mrs. Tate acted as if royalty had come to call. She fluttered about, fingers darting from the soft pleats of her blue day dress to the dark curls beside her slender face. To Emily, who’d visited often over the years, Priscilla’s mother had always seemed rather bemused that she’d birthed someone as breathtaking as Priscilla. Now she couldn’t seem to believe she’d been visited by people as impressive as the Dalrymples.
Mrs. Dalrymple seated herself on the flowered settee beside Priscilla’s mother, leaving Acantha to take up a spindle-backed chair next to Priscilla and Emily. Her gown was a wondrous creation of fine blue cambric and silk lace, with a ruffled skirt and graceful sleeves that danced when she moved her gloved hands. It would have been a lovely dress, on a more lovely creature. Emily thought she heard Priscilla sigh in envy as she gazed on the paisley shawl that draped Acantha’s bony shoulders. Acantha merely smiled beatifically.
“And are you enjoying your Season, Miss Dalrymple?” Priscilla’s mother asked after they were all settled.
Acantha dropped her gaze demurely. “Oh, a very great deal, Mrs. Tate. Everyone has been so kind, so gracious.”
“I declare our sitting room is never void of callers,” Mrs. Dalrymple said with a proud smile at her daughter.
Acantha shot Priscilla and Emily a look. “Yes, even Lord Robert Townsend. We met when he was at Barnsley, and now he calls most every day.”
Emily stiffened. How dare Acantha imply that Emily’s fiancé was more fascinated with her! Not that Emily was in any way enamored with Lord Robert. But still!
Priscilla must have been of the same mind, for she winked at Emily. “Oh, how delightful,” she told Acantha. “I’m certain the two of you get on famously.”
Acantha blinked as if she had not expected so enthusiastic a response. Then she stroked her lovely shawl, and Priscilla’s gaze followed each movement.
“Indeed we do,” Acantha said. “Such a fine gentleman. He has the very best taste, in clothing, in furnishings. He was most admiring of my pearls.”
Of course he had been! He’d very likely stolen them from under that smug little smile.
As the two mothers turned to discussing the latest news of the war, Priscilla smiled at Acantha. “Such a shame you lost your pearls,” Priscilla said, just loud enough that the mother’s couldn’t hear.
Acantha’s expression was nearly as poisoned. “But I didn’t lose them. I found them later, in the drawer of my dressing table.”
Now Emily blinked. “What?”
As Priscilla frowned, Acantha nodded. “It’s true. It seems I’d only misplaced them.”
But if the pearls weren’t missing, then Lord Robert could not be a jewel thief. Oh, why had she thought they’d uncovered his secret?! He was obviously far more cunning than they’d guessed. So, if not the pearls, then what?
“It seems you’ve been quite fortunate,” Priscilla said to Acantha, but each word was bitten off as if she didn’t appreciate being in a position to praise the creature for anything.
Acantha fluffed at the limp brown curls on one side of her narrow face. “Too true. Fortune seems to follow me, just as it does my dear Papa. Of course, I am entirely too gracious to lord it over anyone, particularly someone of your dire straits, Miss Tate.” Her dark gaze roamed over the mismatched furniture and common paintings of the sitting room, and she scrunched up her long nose in obvious distaste.
Priscilla’s fingers were pressed so deeply into the lion’s mouth of the armrest that Emily wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the wooden beast gag. Why couldn’t Acantha leave well enough alone? If Emily had been home, she’d have called for Warburton to throw the creature out, but as this was Priscilla’s home, all Emily could do was sit and try not to do or say anything that would bring shame on Priscilla, the Tates, or His Grace. Miss Martingale said that the daughter of a duke would sit serenely while her fate was pronounced by the executioner.
Sometimes Emily hated being the daughter of a duke.
“Yes, I am, by nature, entirely too sensitive,” Acantha said now with a sigh, as if she bore a burden too great for her scrawny frame. “I care too deeply what others think and feel. In fact, I’m likely the only one who understands how devastated Lord Robert feels after the tragic accident.”
Emily started. Accident? She opened her mouth to ask and felt Priscilla’s slipper come down hard on her own.
“Well,” Priscilla said, “that was most kind of you. I suppose the fellow needed someone to comfort him. Don’t you agree, Emily?”
Emily met her green gaze, feeling a bit as if she were walking out onto an empty field with no knowledge of how she’d come to be there in the first place. “Oh, indeed,” she tried.
It must have been a good enough answer, for Priscilla nodded. “And then compounded with the death of his poor father. Well . . .”
“Actually, his father died first,” Acantha corrected her with a sniff of disdain at Priscilla’s apparent ignorance. “Though I’m sure Lavinia Haversham’s death hit much harder. Robert thought himself in love, after all.” She squealed out one of her laugh
s, and both mothers glanced at the girls. Mrs. Tate’s ruby lips were parted, as if she wasn’t sure whether to speak. Mrs. Dalrymple’s dark brows were drawn down over her heavy nose as if she suspected Acantha’s laugh was misplaced.
Acantha favored her mother with a sickly smile that was no doubt meant to be reassuring and leaned closer to Emily and Pricilla. “Yes, Lord Robert thought himself foolishly in love. That was before he met me, of course.”
He‘d said very nearly the same thing to Emily! That could only mean one thing: this Lavinia Haversham Acantha was talking about was the merchant’s daughter with whom Lord Robert had dallied.
“It didn’t matter if Lord Robert was in love,” Emily told Acantha as the mothers returned to their own conversation. “His family would never have allowed him to marry a merchant’s daughter. Particularly one ill enough to die so young.”
“Ill?” Acantha rolled her eyes. “You two are sadly misinformed. Lavinia Haversham was never ill. Indeed, she went everywhere with Lord Robert. Several balls, Astley’s Riding Amphitheatre, the Egyptian Hall, Lord Elgin’s Marbles . . .”
The Marbles! But Emily had had to beg him to take her there! And he hadn’t offered to take her anywhere else. Besides, he wouldn’t let her attend a single ball.
“He might even have offered for her,” Acantha insisted, “if she hadn’t died. Can you imagine anything worse than dying by accident in your first Season? She passed on only four days before we graduated, you know.”
“No,” Priscilla said, “we didn’t know. And I do believe you’re making this all up.”
Emily couldn’t tell whether the tragic story of Lord Robert’s relationship with Miss Haversham was true or not. For all his claims of grief over his father and the girl he said he loved, Lord Robert had a poor way of showing it. Dallying with a married woman? Agreeing to marry Emily less than a day after Miss Haversham had had her accident? For he could not have taken longer and still reached Barnsley in time for graduation.
And what of the marriage settlements? His Grace had said they’d been working on the things for months. So had Lord Robert dallied with Lavinia Haversham knowing he was going to marry Emily instead? Any way she looked at it, Lord Robert was an unconscionable scoundrel.