by Regina Scott
Acantha apparently thought otherwise, as her gaze darkened. “I did not make it up! I have exquisite details from the gentleman himself.” She glanced at her mother, then rose, lowering her voice. “Take a turn about the room with me, and I shall tell you all.”
14
Crisp Cotton and Chamomile
Emily was quite glad Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne had scheduled fittings for their ball gowns the next day, for it gave the four of them an excuse to meet and discuss Acantha’s strange tale. Not to mention, it allowed Emily to escape the house again. She merely told Warburton that Priscilla had requested her company. She didn’t tell him Priscilla had requested her advice on the ball gown. Sadly, he would never have believed her.
Of course, Emily was not being fitted. Everyone thought she was still to be married. Even her father. She’d tried broaching the matter to His Grace the previous evening. He’d been home and in his study for all of a quarter of an hour before changing for dinner with the Home Secretary.
“I am hearing distressing rumors about Lord Robert,” she had tried when her father noticed her standing in the doorway and asked her what was wrong.
His smile was kind. “I imagine any young man of Lord Robert’s expectations engenders some amount of envious gossip.”
Emily moved closer to where he stood behind the massive, claw-foot desk. Parchment was neatly stacked here and there across the polished top, and he seemed to be taking a moment to study each piece before laying it back down again.
“I explained to him my desire to join the Royal Society this Season,” she told His Grace, “to exhibit my paintings. He did not seem encouraging.”
He frowned, but she could not tell whether it was from concern over what she’d said or concern over what was on the paper in his hand. He did not look up. “Lord Robert is under a great deal of pressure from his family. I imagine that’s what’s driving his desire to marry so quickly.”
Emily bent her head to try to peer up under his gaze. “Could you not persuade them to wait?”
He sighed and let the paper fall. “I would prefer not to, Emily Rose. These are trying times. We thought the threat to England vanquished, yet he manages to raise an army and rally France into a furor once more.”
He, Napoleon. She should have known it was not her marriage that had brought her father back so soon from Vienna. He had important duties, for the Crown, for England.
His Grace looked up and met her gaze, brown eyes solemn. “I want you safely settled, Emily. Your mother and I both wanted this match. I know she’d be very proud of you.”
Emily had nodded and left. Truly, what else could she do? It wasn’t as if she could appeal to her mother for help. The very idea just made her feel hot, angry, ready to throw something.
But that wouldn’t have helped matters either.
Now she stood at the back of Madam Levasard’s, watching as Priscilla and Daphne took turns on the raised platform so that the seamstresses could tuck and pin and stitch them into their gowns. The shop was light and airy, with bolts of fine fabric clustered along the walls, lace dripping from wooden wheels, and fine feathers waving from drying racks. Half-finished gowns hung here and there, tantalizing the imagination. The air smelled of crisp cotton and the chamomile tea that Madam was so fond of serving. Indeed, Priscilla’s mother and Daphne and Ariadne’s mother, Lady Rollings, were already seated by the front window with steaming cups in front of them, waiting to critique the final gowns.
“So who exactly is Lavinia Haversham?” Daphne asked as if she had not been able to follow Emily’s and Priscilla’s explanations. She was taking her turn on the platform, a seamstress kneeling at her feet to let out the hem of the dazzling white gown.
“That wealthy merchant’s daughter who dallied with Lord Robert,” Ariadne offered, thumbing through some of Madam’s sketches and pausing on one of a daring green gown with a sigh. “Though I would have made her a princess, mind you, with a name like Scheherazade or Alamahari.”
“She was not a member of Good Society,” Priscilla explained, eyeing the delphinium blue fabric that had draped her only moments before, “but Lavinia’s father hoped to buy her way into the Beau Monde with a titled husband. That should not have been difficult. Acantha related that Miss Haversham was beautiful, gracious, and kind. If she hadn’t slipped in her bedchamber, struck her head on the corner of her dressing table, and expired, Lord Robert might well have defied his family and married her.”
“Perhaps not,” Daphne put in hopefully. “Perhaps he realized that Lady Emily had always been his one true love.” She gave Emily a look out of the corners of her eyes.
Certainly Lord Robert wanted Emily to think that. She still couldn’t make herself believe it. “And perhaps pigs might fly,” she replied.
Priscilla nodded. “His behavior is shameful. It’s as if he simply forgot all about Miss Haversham and went happily on with his life. Doesn’t the poor girl deserve better?”
Ariadne and Daphne were nodding as well. Emily could not look at them. She gazed down at her gloved fingers, so tightly entwined in front of her that she could feel all her bones.
“Sometimes,” she said, “it’s easier to forget, to pretend you never knew the person you loved.”
Someone, likely Daphne, sucked in a breath. Emily managed to look up. They were all regarding her as if she were made of fine crystal, and if they touched her, she might break. Even the seamstress paused to stare at her.
“I simply meant,” she said, wanting to hide under the little wire-backed chair, “that there might be a reason for him rushing off to Somerset to meet me, why he doesn’t speak much of her.”
“I suppose his heart may be broken,” Daphne conceded. Then she turned so the seamstress could work on her graceful train.
Priscilla shook her head. “I’m not willing to agree that he has a heart. Acantha said Miss Haversham’s family has retired to the country for the remainder of the Season to mourn. Should he not mourn as well?”
It did seem rather heartless. Was this all some game to him? Would he treat Emily the same way? Was he pretending to court her, only to dash her hopes at the last second? If so, he was toying with the wrong person. One did not abandon the daughter of a duke!
“I can’t understand him,” Emily said. “As much as it pains me to admit, however, this sad tale doesn’t help us in the slightest.”
“Surely His Grace would be moved by it,” Daphne protested, scooping up her train. The seamstress rose, held out her hand, and helped Daphne off the platform to go show Lady Rollings.
“Very likely he would find it tragic,” Emily replied as they passed. “However, while it does not reflect well on Lord Robert, we have nothing to lay at his door except extremely shallow feelings, especially as we now know that he did not steal Acantha’s pearls.”
“Then what do we do?” Priscilla exclaimed. “You cannot give up! We could never be happy knowing you were consigned to that shallow fellow! Besides, think about the ball, Emily—roses, fairies, goldfish!”
“Perhaps you could just tell Lord Robert you wish it above all things,” Ariadne suggested, rummaging through the rose-colored folds of her reticule.
“I told him so yesterday,” Emily replied. “He said he would simply have to make me a better offer.”
“I knew it,” Ariadne said, head rising and eyes lighting. “He is smuggling virgins. I read a pamphlet on it. They were handed out at Hatchards Lending Library.”
“Next time,” Priscilla advised, with a smile and a shake of her head, “go into the library instead of loitering out front to see the gentlemen passing. Lord Robert is definitely not smuggling virgins.”
“I don’t see why not,” Ariadne said with a sniff. “He has the connections, and what virgin would deny him anything?” She blushed furiously.
“I don’t think Lord Robert smuggles young ladies of quality, or anything else,” Emily said quickly as Ariadne opened her mouth to protest. “And, as Acantha’s pearls were found, i
t appears he isn’t a jewel thief either.”
“Perhaps Acantha is lying,” Ariadne said, as if she couldn’t bear to see another theory proved wrong. She pulled a smaller sack from her reticule and set it down on the sketch of the green gown.
“Unfortunately, no,” Priscilla said. “She was entirely too smug about the matter.”
“I still say he’s up to something,” Ariadne insisted.
“I agree,” Emily said. “But what?”
“Perhaps you should discuss the matter with His Grace,” Daphne put in, returning to their sides. “Lord Snedley advises that honesty is the best policy in all things, except when answering the question ‘Does this gown show I’ve eaten a dozen cakes in the last fortnight?’ of course.” She turned to Ariadne. “Mother wants to see your gown now.”
Ariadne waved a hand. “The one she picked out for me looks just like yours, only without the shimmery overskirt. Who needs to see it again?” She turned to Emily. “Daphne’s right. Speak to His Grace.”
Emily shook her head. “I spoke with him last night. He at least intends well by me. He truly believes this marriage will keep me safe. No, I can only go to him when we have something tangible.”
Ariadne’s smile formed, widening her round cheeks. “Then we are still investigating Lord Robert?”
“Yes,” Emily said, lowering her voice and beckoning them closer, “but I think we must narrow our purpose. Mr. Cropper thinks him a criminal, and Acantha Dalrymple thinks him a saint. We have far too many rumors about Lord Robert. We must seek the truth from the man himself. If Acantha is lying, and he is a jewel thief, it may be that he will steal something else. If not, he may show us the truth behind his strange actions. Tomorrow, we shall follow him again, and this time, we won’t stop until we learn his secret!”
15
Art and Artifice
As if Lord Robert knew they were determined to thwart him, he called on Emily that very afternoon. She was all set to have Warburton turn him away, until she learned he’d brought an acquaintance.
“Lady Honoria St. Gregory,” Warburton intoned as he ushered the lady and Lord Robert into the sitting room. Emily was thoroughly sorry for the gown she’d worn. It was a ruffled pink silk day dress her father had had made for her. She’d hoped she’d spill enough paint on it that she wouldn’t feel guilty giving the thing to the rag man. But painting had once again proven difficult, and the gown had won over The War of the Roses.
“I have been telling Lady St. Gregory all about your work,” Lord Robert explained after they had been seated in the claw-footed chairs near the fire.
Lady St. Gregory was already glancing about at the battle scenes. She was younger than Emily had expected, perhaps only ten years Emily’s senior. Her glossy black hair was swept back from a high-cheekboned face; her gaze was as icy blue as the short jacket and matching gown she wore. Her soft pink lips somehow managed to convey her feelings better than the rest of her calm face. As Lady St. Gregory’s lips thinned, Emily gathered with a sinking heart that the sculptress was not exactly pleased with what she saw.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Emily said politely. “I’ve followed your work in the newspapers.”
“Yes, The Times in particular has been kind to me,” the lady acknowledged. She did not so much as lean back in the chair, sitting as ramrod straight as Miss Martingale always said a lady should sit. Miss Martingale would have adored Lady St. Gregory: the graceful way she held her gloved hands, the elegant tilt to her chin, the way her embroidered slippers just crossed at the ankles below her blue hem, which had no ruffles whatsoever.
“And what made you decide upon battle scenes?” she asked.
“Yes, that was a bit odd,” Lord Robert agreed. “Though mind you, I think they’re heavenly.”
Emily kept the smile on her face. “I believe we should remember history and honor those who went before. That’s why I also paint myths and the deaths of great leaders.”
Those lips did not warm in the slightest, not even in understanding. “Historical epics. They were all the rage a few years ago.”
She made it sound as if Emily were hopelessly behind the times or blindly following a path laid out by others more talented. Emily swallowed. “I believe an artist should paint what moves her, my lady.”
Lady St. Gregory inclined her head. “I quite agree. Why do I find it difficult to believe that battle scenes and deaths move a young lady of your limited years?”
Emily felt as if she would explode like one of the shells in her battle scenes. She squeezed her knees together to keep from rising, and the ruffles bunched against her shins.
“Perhaps because you do not know me well,” she said with as much civility as she could manage, fingers clutching her locket. “I assure you, I care passionately about the scenes I paint.”
“No doubt,” Lady St. Gregory said.
Why had Emily thought she would have anything in common with this icicle of a woman? There was no sensibility, no generosity of spirit. Lady St. Gregory very likely sculpted the stone by gazing at it in so withering a manner.
“I care so much, in fact,” Emily continued, “that I was hoping to exhibit one of my paintings at Priscilla Tate’s come-out ball. Perhaps that piece will give you a better idea of what I’ve learned.”
Lady St. Gregory frowned. “But Lord Robert tells me you may not be attending the ball after all.”
“Lord Robert is mistaken,” Emily said, glaring at him.
He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Lady Emily is devoted to her craft,” he said to Lady St. Gregory. “I know how much she wants to impress you. As she cannot attend the ball, I thought perhaps you could view her work today. Surely you can see the genius in it.”
Emily felt her gaze softening. Did he truly understand what her painting meant to her, how much she longed to join the Royal Society? Had he sought out the sculptress simply to help Emily reach her dreams? No one had ever done anything of such magnitude for her before.
How very odd that it should be Lord Robert. Was this somehow part of his deceptions? What would it profit him? She had no time for these questions now, not when her future sat so sternly across from her!
“I can see that Lady Emily is talented,” Lady St. Gregory allowed. “I simply question her range.”
Range? What was that supposed to mean? She’d done battles at sea, battles on land, mythical battles in the air! What more did the woman want?
“I find the pieces quite realistic,” Lord Robert argued, “for all my dear Emily has never been to war. The horse in that one has a particularly mean look to it.” He shivered. “I’d not wish to meet its like.”
He was not helping the situation. Emily was tempted to ask him to wait in the library. She didn’t need another witness to her flogging.
“I find no fault in the execution of the pieces,” Lady St. Gregory assured him, “but she is quite correct, Lord Robert. I do not know her.” She leveled her cool gaze on Emily, and Emily had to fight not to squirm under it. “One of the things about great art is that one can learn something of the artist by looking at the creation. I see little of you in these.”
She could not have felt worse if Lady St. Gregory had slapped her. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, my lady.”
Lady St. Gregory’s smile was tight. “I’m sure you don’t.” She rose. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Emily. If you exhibit at Miss Tate’s ball, please send me word. Otherwise, I wish you luck in your marriage. You need not escort me, Lord Robert. I have other calls to make.”
No doubt to spread her joy. Emily could only manage a nod as the woman left.
Lord Robert, standing and watching Lady St. Gregory leave, shook his head. “My, that did not go well.”
“No, it did not.” Emily slumped in her seat, feeling as if even her bones had wilted. Was she truly such a terrible artist? Had she never managed to create a piece that spoke to others?
Lord Robert came to sit beside her, hi
s face soft and forlorn. “Now, now,” he said, reaching out to pat her hand. “Perhaps it is best to know the truth.”
Emily nodded miserably. “I suppose so. Yet I was so sure I was ready for the Royal Society.”
“It is all too easy to delude oneself when one cares as deeply as you do,” Lord Robert said. “But now that you know, you can follow a different path.”
Follow a different path? Stop painting? She could as easily stop breathing! She forced her bones to straighten, her head to rise. “No, I must keep trying. If my efforts are lacking, I must learn to do better.”
“How brave you are,” Lord Robert murmured. His finger grazed her cheek, and she felt as if he were tracing a pattern inside her. “Most people would surrender after such a set down.”
No, she would hear no word of giving up. “But I can’t. Don’t you see?” She waved a hand around at all her battle scenes, feeling as if she’d been forced to go to war as well. “This, these paintings, my art, it’s who I am, Robert. Fate made me the daughter of a duke, but in my heart, I’m an artist.”
He gathered her close, and Emily stiffened. What was he doing? But before she could demand an explanation, he rested his head against hers. “I know you’re an artist, Emily,” he murmured. “You’ve painted your likeness on my heart, and I am awed by its beauty.”
How could he of all people know exactly the right words to say at that moment? He was supposed to be a scoundrel! Yet she could not help the warmth that stole over her, the desire to hug him close and swear to renew the fight. His large hand came up to rub her back in lazy circles. The feeling was surprisingly pleasant.
She let her head fall to his shoulder as she sat cradled in his embrace. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps her work was enough. At the moment, she couldn’t remember why she’d wanted to join the Royal Society so badly.
What was she thinking? What was she doing?! Emily yanked herself out of his arms and stood on shaking legs. He gazed up at her, brows raised, eyes warm. He seemed to expect her to pledge her undying devotion.