by Regina Scott
“I believe,” Emily said carefully, “that he is following Lord Robert.”
“Unlikely,” her father replied. “I can think of no reason for Bow Street to be interested in the Townsends.”
Bow Street? Of course! Jamie must be a Runner, part of London’s elite investigative force. He had to be one of the youngest, but by no means the least talented, she was sure. That’s what he’d meant when he said his mother would have preferred him to have another vocation. That’s why he hadn’t been able to tell her why he was following Lord Robert! And why he’d never truly been following her.
It also explained why he was so angry when he thought Emily had prevented him from learning the truth. She would never forget the look on his face, a heartbreaking mix of pain and pride. She shivered just remembering it. He’d been investigating Lord Robert for something serious. But what?
“How do you know Mr. Cropper?” she asked her father. “You said you knew his mother.”
Her father sighed. “It is not a topic I would choose to discuss with you, but as you are acquainted with the young man and about to marry Lord Robert, I suppose you had better know the truth. James Cropper is the son of the previous Lord Wakenoak, Lord Robert’s father.”
Emily threw off the lap robe to lean closer. That’s what Ariadne had been trying to say! James Cropper is a bastard. He was Lord Robert’s brother! She’d seen the resemblance from the first in that magnificent mane of hair, but she found she could not believe Lord Robert and Jamie to be related. “You knew Lord Wakenoak had an illegitimate child and you never told me?”
They drove near a lamp post then, and she could see His Grace looking intently at her, his brown eyes dark and grim. “There are a great many things I do not tell you, Emily Rose,” he said. “Be glad for that fact.”
She felt herself blushing. “Yes, well, it seems I needed to know this one.”
“Indeed. It is not a happy tale. Wakenoak had his wilder moments, which I could not like. Jasmine Cropper was a delightful young woman, one of Lady Wakenoak’s goddaughters come to join them for the Season.” He sighed again. “It is a sad fact, Emily, that some gentlemen must have their own way, even when it hurts others.”
Lord Robert came to mind. She’d always thought he was his father’s favorite. It seemed they had a great deal in common, even bullying women.
“There would have been a great scandal, of course,” her father said, “but Miss Cropper chose to sequester herself in a quiet corner of London and add a ‘Mrs.’ to her name. When I learned James had been born, I advised Wakenoak to give him every advantage. I thought he’d at least paid for tutoring, but it appears the boy had to pull himself up by his bootstraps. I’ll speak to my steward. Perhaps we can find a place for him on one of the estates.”
An estate manager would have been no better consort for the daughter of a duke, but she supposed it hardly mattered now. Nothing mattered now. Unless Jamie accused Lord Robert of some crime in the next two days, she was as good as married.
And even if the impossible were to happen, she had no hope of regaining Jamie’s good regard. He was right. She had used him, brought him to the dinner in a desperate attempt to show up Lord Robert. He would see Emily as no better than his own father, using others for personal gain. He’d never forgive her.
She was so despondent that she had only a vague memory of entering the town house and bidding her father good night. She allowed Mary to help her change, answering questions about the big night so tersely that Mary soon gave up. But after Mary left Emily couldn’t bear the quiet of her silk-paneled room.
She went to her easel and stared at the soldiers, the roses of their badges stark red and white in the candlelight. Who cared about battles from long ago when people’s hearts were breaking and dreams were shattering right here, right now? Surely there was something more important she could paint.
She hefted the larger canvas down and replaced it with the second, smaller one Miss Alexander had sent with her. She gazed at the blank canvas for the longest time, until she began to see shades of gray and blue and yellow in the expanse of cream. But nothing grand enough or beautiful enough came to mind. She simply could not paint a bowl of fruit. She’d give up painting first!
She was nearly ready to give up now. How was it Lady St. Gregory thought Emily incapable of putting herself into her battle scenes? Even Jamie had said Emily had missed the emotion. They were both wrong.
She put herself into her paintings. The bold colors made her feel stronger. The solidity of the oils gave her a sense of control, as if the world could be just as she ordered it, given time and patience. And the battle scenes, well, they were big, powerful. In them, men were heroes, and heroes triumphed. And, in a small way, so did she. Painting anything else felt limited, insignificant.
Vulnerable.
Emily turned to her paints. Her hands shook as she mixed the oils, prepared her palette. She didn’t sketch the piece in charcoal first as was her usual process. She attacked the canvas, stroking on the paint surely. If no one knew what she was made of, she’d simply have to show them.
The painting blossomed under her brush. Indeed, the ease of it surprised her. Color and form blended, became real. Then love and hope and dreams mixed, slowing her hand. It was as if she painted with her own tears, her own blood.
Memory fueled each stroke—the thought of Priscilla’s delighted smile, the sound of Ariadne’s infectious giggle, Daphne’s quiet strength. She thought of His Grace tucking the lap robe around her with care, Jamie facing down a beggar twice his size to protect her. There was warmth and bittersweet pain in remembering how many people loved her, how many people she loved.
Even if they were no longer at her side.
She stepped back finally and eyed the piece. It might never win Miss Alexander’s praise or the Barnsley Prize in Art. Very likely it would never earn her Lady St. Gregory’s approval or a place in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. But she needed no one to tell her it was very, very good.
She only wished she could say that about the rest of her life.
21
White Flags of Surrender
Emily bent over Medallion’s head, gloved hands on her horse’s reins. “I need you to fly today,” she whispered into the black ear. Medallion shook her head, the silky mane caressing Emily’s cheek. She touched her heels to the horse’s flank and felt the muscles bunch beneath her. In a breath, they were away.
The Thoroughbred pounded down the sandy track, the beat of her hooves echoing the pounding of Emily’s heart. The air, heady with the blooms of spring, swept past her, cooling her skin, wiping clean her mind, imbuing hope, purpose.
She had two days to catch Lord Robert before the ball. She had to think, plan, determine some way to expose him to all of London.
But expose him as what? And how?
They reached the end of Rotten Row, with Kensington Palace looming in the background, and Emily pulled the horse up. Rubbing her hand along Medallion’s glossy neck, she turned the horse for the walk back up Hyde Park.
And heard her name being called.
“Emily!” Daphne shouted, waving wildly from the seat of her father’s barouche. Beside her in the open carriage sat Ariadne, with Priscilla on the opposite seat. They were all bundled in quilted pelisses, testimony to the morning chill. But the fact that none of them wore bonnets was testimony to the speed at which they’d come to find her.
As their family coachman reined the matching black horses to a halt, Emily brought Medallion alongside.
“We have so much to tell you!” Ariadne exclaimed.
Emily’s groom, who had been following at a distance, rode up as well. Emily tossed him Medallion’s reins and slid to the ground, pausing to tuck the black train of her wool riding habit up over her arm. In a moment, she had dispatched the groom to return the horse to the stable and climbed into the carriage to seat herself beside Priscilla.
“A great deal happened after you left last night,” Daphne said, lea
ning forward as the carriage set out once more.
“A great deal happened before she left,” Ariadne argued. She turned to Emily. “I’m only sorry I could not reach you in time. James Cropper is Lord Robert’s half brother and a Bow Street Runner!”
Though merely hearing Jamie’s name was painful, Emily managed a smile. “I know. Father told me on the way home.”
Ariadne’s face fell. “Oh, well, then.”
“There is more,” Daphne said, looking first at Emily and then more pointedly at Ariadne.
“Oh, I suppose,” Ariadne said. “But Emily quite stole my thunder.”
“Perhaps you should start at the beginning,” Emily said.
Ariadne sighed, her gaze going to the trees in the copse they were crossing. “Very well. As you know, I went to the retiring room to try to fix the stain on my dress.” She glanced back at Emily. “It didn’t come out, by the way. You were quite right. For all my scrubbing, all I managed to do was turn the dress pink, and I know how you feel about pink.”
Daphne coughed.
“I’m getting there!” Ariadne snapped. “I am a writer, you know. I can tell a decent story.”
When Daphne blushed, Ariadne hurried on. “In any event, I had just stepped behind the screen to use the Necessary when who should walk in but Lady Skelcroft and Lady Baminger. That odious Lady Skelcroft was quite incensed. She was trying to decide whether to tell poor Lady Wakenoak they were dining with her husband’s illegitimate son.”
So Lord Robert’s mother hadn’t known. “I wondered why she agreed to invite him,” Emily said. “I suppose I should be glad I wasn’t the only one in ignorance.”
“Indeed not,” Ariadne assured her as the carriage passed the still, green waters of the Serpentine. “I gather Lady Baminger was just as shocked to hear. Poor Lady Wakenoak turned white when Lady Skelcroft told her after the ladies had left the gentlemen to their port and retired to the withdrawing room.”
“But never you fear,” Daphne put in. “Lady Skelcroft got her due. I heard her telling Lady Baminger how she’d lost her diamond brooch. Her husband feared it stolen and called Bow Street. That’s how she knew Mr. Cropper.”
Priscilla made a face and spoke for the first time. “You missed the end of that story when your mother called you to play the piano for everyone. Lady Skelcroft found the brooch just the other day.”
Emily frowned. “Odd. That’s the same thing that happened to Acantha Dalrymple.”
“Well, they are just as horrid,” Daphne pointed out, “and they both love calling attention to themselves so I’m not entirely surprised.”
As the horses’ hooves drummed against the wood bridge near Hyde Park Corner, Priscilla put a hand on Emily’s arm. “I also must apologize for not speaking last night, Emily.”
The ache in her voice pierced Emily’s pain. She turned her frown on Priscilla. “What are you talking about?”
Priscilla’s hands fluttered before her, reminding Emily of Mrs. Tate’s fretting. “I wanted to tell you to fight, to refuse to marry the fellow just because your father wishes it. But I couldn’t very well say that, could I? I’m guilty of the same sin.”
Daphne reached out and patted Priscilla’s knee. “You’re only trying to help your family,” she assured Priscilla.
Priscilla straightened away from the kind touch as if she did not believe she deserved it. “That may be the case for me, but it isn’t the case for Emily. His Grace isn’t teetering on the brink of financial disaster, and she doesn’t have a Dreaded Family Secret to guard.” Her green gaze sought Emily’s, imploring. “You don’t have to do this. Say no.”
Emily shook her head. “It’s too late, Pris. I signed the settlement papers last night. I gave my word.”
Priscilla’s eyes were brimming. “Only because you didn’t wish to disappoint your father. You know that’s the truth. You don’t love Lord Robert. You couldn’t love someone like him.”
Tears heated Emily’s eyes as well. “What was it you said, Pris? ‘I imagine love and compatibility are very nice for those who can afford them.’ Apparently, even a duke’s daughter cannot afford them!”
“Nonsense!” Priscilla declared, dashing away her tears with one hand. “We’ll go back to your town house and send the footman for Lord Robert. I very much doubt he’s any match for La Petite Four when we set our minds to it. We’ll tell him that enough is enough. And we’ll make him give you the ball!”
Emily eyed her. Priscilla’s lips were tight, her skin pale. She had no way of knowing that having the ball would not save Emily from marrying a monster or ease Emily’s broken heart.
But Emily could not bear to see her friend so upset. If giving Lord Robert a piece of her mind would ease Priscilla’s pain, Emily was all for it.
“I suppose it’s worth a try,” she agreed.
And it was far easier than she’d thought, for when they arrived at the town house, Warburton announced that Lord Robert was waiting in the withdrawing room for a word with Lady Emily.
Emily and Priscilla exchanged glances, Ariadne nodded as if she’d expected the villain to show himself, and Daphne squared her shoulders as if ready for a fight. As soon as Warburton had taken their pelisses, the girls marched into the sitting room to confront Lord Robert. Emily was surprised to find herself almost eager for the moment. Arguing with him probably wouldn’t make her life any easier, as he’d no doubt take it out on her later. But she had a feeling Priscilla wouldn’t be the only one relieved to lay into him.
Lord Robert rose from where he’d been sitting on the sofa. As if he saw their intent written on their determined faces, he immediately held up his hands. Surrender? It couldn’t be. Emily hadn’t even opened her mouth!
“Ladies, how delightful to find you all together,” he said as Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne fanned out beside Emily, their gowns bright against the dark wool of her riding habit.
Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, really, my lord? I cannot credit that you had something you wished to say to all of us.”
He must have grown used to her forthright speech, for he merely smiled as he lowered his hands. “Actually, I wished to speak to you, my dear, but I had hoped our discussion would end with an announcement of interest to your friends.”
Priscilla stepped closer to Emily with a frown. “And what would that be, my lord?” Priscilla demanded.
Emily eyed her, fighting a grin. She’d never heard Priscilla take precisely that tone with a gentleman before. In fact, Priscilla sounded a great deal like Emily!
“I regret that I am not at liberty to say, Miss Tate,” he replied with a short bow. “If I could have a moment of your time, Emily?”
Emily exchanged glances with Priscilla again. “Watch out for sweet words,” Priscilla whispered in warning, then she stepped back and drew Daphne and Ariadne toward the door.
“We’ll be just in the corridor, Lady Emily,” Daphne assured her as Priscilla pulled her out. “Well within calling distance if you need us. And I know where you keep the fireplace poker.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at Lord Robert before disappearing around the door frame. Ariadne, white-faced and still speechless in front of a gentleman, hurried out as well.
“Such good friends you have,” Lord Robert said as Emily returned her gaze to him.
Emily raised her chin. “You did not think so last night.”
“Ah,” he said, clasping his hands behind his dove-colored morning coat. “And that is why I had to see you this morning. I must apologize for my behavior last night. I said some things that I regret.”
Some things? She regretted every word she’d heard him speak. But Emily knew the others were listening, and she could not let La Petite Four down.
“You were a beast,” she said, setting her gloved fists on her hips. “You bullied me and belittled my friends. If I were a man, I’d call you out.”
His smile was all regret. “I understand how you might have taken my words amiss. I was not myself last night. It was the
sight of Cropper. The fellow has been an enemy of my family since the day he was born. To find him in our home was maddening.”
She did not believe Jamie was the Townsends’ enemy; he appeared to dislike Lord Robert in particular. Still, it must have shocked Lord Robert to see his half brother standing there last night. Small wonder the two had barked at each other like bulldogs eager for a fight.
“You both said some rather harsh words,” she allowed, letting her hands fall.
“I would prefer that you not dwell on that. It does me no credit. I like to think I am a gentleman.”
He could pretend to the niceties all he liked. The mask had slipped last night, and Emily knew him for what he was. And he obviously thought he knew her. Did he truly find her so vapid as to believe this patter?
She tilted her head and fluttered her lashes at him. “Oh, you cannot know how that eases my mind, my lord.”
He completely missed her sarcasm, smiling at Emily as if she’d performed as well as a pet pooch. “I apologize for maligning your friends as well,” he said. He took a step closer, and the sunlight from the window crowned his head with fire. “I can see they have your best interests at heart. That’s why I had to see you this morning, before plans went any further. Perhaps I have been harsh in encouraging you to give up this ball.”
A gasp rang out from the corridor, followed by a scuffling noise, as if someone was being grabbed and hushed. Emily shook her head. She was having similar difficulty believing he meant what she thought. Surely this was some kind of trick to lull her into complacency. Why would Lord Robert give up now, when he’d won? He would think her at his mercy.
“So, you’ll change your plans for me?” she asked, watching him.
“Of course,” he said smoothly, as if willing to give her the world. “Though I am uncertain whether I can attend. It will all depend on Mother. Last night wore her out, poor dear, all that pretending she was happy when she is so devastated by Father’s loss.”
Somehow, Emily doubted Lady Wakenoak was so consummate an actress. Lord Robert’s mother had seemed rather happy to have so many people about, to be dressed in finery. Which hadn’t a stitch of black in it, come to think of it.