by Regina Scott
The clasp broke, and Emily tumbled to the ground, gasping for air. “Here!” she cried, voice rough. “I’m here!”
Feet pounded in all directions. One pair surely belonged to Lord Robert, running away, the coward. She was alone only a second before she was surrounded and lifted to her feet.
“That way,” she said, pointing. “He’s escaping.”
“Not for long,” said Mr. Kent. Others joined him, the sound of pursuit fading in the night.
She looked up to find that the hermit was cradling her in his arms. His hat covered most of his face so that all she could see was his smile, and it was positively wicked.
She frowned. “Jamie?”
The smile widened, and she hugged him to her. The wool of his coat was rough and warm against her cheek. The night air was less cool with his arms around her. She fancied she could hear his heart beating as quickly as her own, but that truly must have been a fancy, for she knew he could not care for her. Could he?
“Emily?”
Jamie released her at the sound of her father’s voice. Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne crowded around her father, all looking frightfully worried, along with Viscount Rollings, Acantha Dalrymple, several men she’d met at the engagement dinner, a statue, and the flock of fairies, one missing a wing.
“Lady Emily is safe,” Jamie reported, handing her to her father as if his job was done. She’d helped him catch a criminal, and now he’d be off on his next investigation, her face, her person forgotten. She wanted to hide under the bush.
“I regret, however,” Jamie continued, “that Lord Robert has escaped with the emeralds.”
His Grace frowned as a murmur ran through the group.
“No, he hasn’t,” Emily said. “Those were paste copies. I sent the originals north to Cousin Charles and Helena yesterday.”
Her father gazed down at her with a shake of his head. “Well done. But you might have told me what you were about.”
“I had no proof Lord Robert was a jewel thief, Father, but I knew he’d stolen Lady Skelcroft’s brooch and Miss Dalrymple’s pearls. He murdered Miss Haversham when she caught him. He only agreed to marry me to deflect suspicion, until he learned I suspected him as well. Tonight he meant to steal the emeralds, kill me, and blame it on Mr. Cropper.”
More gasps rang out.
“That’s silly!” Acantha Dalrymple cried, hand on her pearls. “Lord Robert’s no thief. My pearls are right here.”
“No, they aren’t,” Daphne said. “Lady Emily is telling the truth. I heard Lord Robert confess.”
Now Emily frowned. “You did?”
Daphne nodded. “I heard voices so I crawled out on the ledge by the ladies’ retiring room.”
“You could have been killed!” a statue cried.
“Not really,” Daphne said. “I dragged the commode to the window and tied my train to it as an anchor. And I saw the entire scene. Besides, someone had to protect Lady Emily, and I have the most skill.”
“Dear God,” her father muttered. “Don’t tell your mother.”
“And when I got stuck coming back through the maze to tell everyone,” Daphne continued blissfully, “Priscilla chopped down a portion with a chair. And Ariadne climbed onstage and blew the ophicleide to get everyone’s attention, then explained that you were in danger. And then Mr. Cropper revealed himself and took charge, and we knew everything would be fine. And it was.”
“It most certainly was not!” Acantha Dalrymple exclaimed. “Your escapades will be on everyone’s tongues! I might have known you four couldn’t put on a proper ball.”
“On the contrary,” Emily said, linking arms with Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne. “We’ve just given the event of the Season. But you are right about one thing. This night will be the talk of London, especially the part about your pearls being nothing but paste.”
“I wonder,” Priscilla put in with a smile, “if other parts of her are too?”
As Acantha gasped and clutched her bosom, La Petite Four headed back to the ballroom and to the wonders of the night they had worked so hard to achieve.
And so the ball was the huge success Priscilla had wanted, if not, precisely, for the same reasons. Mr. Kent returned to tell His Grace that Lord Robert had been caught and taken to Newgate Prison. It did not quite seem real to Emily as she promenaded about the Elysium Assembly Rooms with the others. People she’d only just met smiled at her, waved to her from across the room. Rumors had circulated that something had happened, and they were the heroines of the piece. Some enterprising young person had even learned their sobriquet and shared it with the guests.
“So now all of London knows we are La Petite Four,” Ariadne said proudly. “No doubt they think we earned the name because we are so sweet.”
“I would not call you sweet,” Daphne said. “Not after the way you let me prattle on about Lord Snedley.”
Ariadne hung her head.
Daphne draped her arm around her bare shoulders. “I should have known it was the work of my brilliant sister.”
Ariadne raised her head with a smile, and all knew she had been forgiven.
Emily had her own confession to make. When she’d been alone in the garden, she’d sworn the night would not end before she confessed her feelings for Jamie. She turned to look for him and found herself facing Lady St. Gregory.
“A most interesting night, Lady Emily,” she said in her usual cool tone. “You are quite a singular young lady.”
Was that praise? Emily could not believe it. “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said politely.
“I wish to speak with you about the portrait of your mother. Was that difficult?”
Why did Lady St. Gregory ask such questions? Emily never knew how to answer. “It was the easiest and hardest piece I’ve ever done,” she admitted. “The colors, her face, they came easily. Conveying the person I loved was very, very hard.”
Lady St. Gregory smiled. “Yet you did it. I never met your mother, but looking at the painting, I fancy I know her, and you. I imagine she’d be very, very proud of you.”
Emily blinked back tears. “Thank you, your ladyship.”
Lady St. Gregory inclined her head. “I give praise where it is due. I believe we have room for an artist of your caliber in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. What do you say?”
Emily stared at her. Then, seeing the truth in the woman’s broad smile, she broke into a grin herself. “I say thank you very much, your ladyship. Thank you very much indeed!”
Her delight lasted only as long as it took for Lady St. Gregory to give her the particulars of the next meeting. Then her stomach began to squirm again. Her gaze swept the room, searching. Priscilla was on the dance floor with a tall, bucktoothed fellow Emily could only guess was the mighty Duke of Rottenford. Beyond them, Ariadne had cornered the famous playwright Mr. Sheridan and was happily quizzing him on his life in the theatre. Not far away, Daphne was chatting with several fellows, all of whom seemed quite impressed by a lady who could climb out a window and perch on a ledge in her ball gown.
But then Emily saw him, standing by the doors to the veranda. The glow from the beeswax candles in the crystal chandeliers overhead glinted off his russet hair.
Jamie caught her gaze on him and raised two fingers to his forehead. Then he disappeared out onto the veranda.
Emily followed.
He was waiting in the moonlight. “Everything all right, then?”
Not in the slightest, but she nodded. “Yes. I suppose you’ll be off to the next case.”
He shrugged. “Such is the life of a Runner. You understand now why I couldn’t tell you that I was investigating Lord Robert. Mr. Haversham contacted Bow Street after he found that his daughter’s jewels had been converted to paste. When the Marquess of Skelcroft complained about his wife’s brooch going missing, only to have it reappear as paste, I saw that the only connection between the two cases was Lord Robert Townsend.”
Emily nodded again. Where were her good intentions? She wanted to
stand here, drinking in the sight of him, talking to him about anything, everything. “So you came in disguise tonight hoping to catch him.”
“In part,” he said. “But in truth, I had to come.”
Emily made a face. “I suppose I did sound rather cryptic in my note. I didn’t want to tell you that I planned to expose Lord Robert. I wanted you to see it, to know that I . . .”
He strode to her side and took her hands in his. “You what, Lady Emily?”
She couldn’t say it, couldn’t risk it. Not when she was certain he had no feelings for her besides a reluctant admiration. Or did he? He had given her one clue. Perhaps she should do some investigating of her own.
“I wanted to know what you meant by your note about the ball,” she said. “There was the little matter of an L.”
“An L?” He sounded surprised.
“An L,” she insisted. “Just before your initials. I could not determine what it meant.”
He was quiet for a moment, which she knew meant he was choosing his words with care. Finally, he said, “Most people would take it as a time notation, placed as it was next to the nine. L for later.”
“Ah,” she said, feeling foolish. “Of course.” Was it too late to crawl away and cry?
“A few, however,” he continued, a smile in his voice, “might take it as a description. L for longingly.”
“Oh,” she said, her heartbeat speeding.
“And the bold ones,” he finished, leaning closer and lowering his voice, “might take it one step further. Let’s say, L for lovingly.”
Emily swallowed. “I’ve been known to be bold.”
“I would have wagered my life on it. And that’s why I had to come to the ball, Emily. I had to tell you that I love you. The other night, at the dinner party when I thought I’d lost you to Lord Robert, I lashed out. I’m sorry.”
“You had a right,” she protested. “I hadn’t realized that I was using you. I just wanted to catch him so badly.”
“I know that now. Tonight, when I saw the painting of your mother, I knew you couldn’t love someone like Lord Robert. Yet I nearly lost you to him again.”
Inside, the musicians struck up a waltz. The sound floated over them, lilting. Her heart floated right along with it.
“You couldn’t lose me, Jamie. I love you too.”
His smile captured her heart and held it gently. “Dance with me?”
She nodded, too full of joy to speak. He wrapped one hand around hers and rested the other above her waist, holding her in his embrace. Emily’s hand trembled as she placed it on his broad shoulder. His gaze met hers, solemn.
And they began to move in time to the music, backward, forward, turn. She knew the steps. The last time she’d practiced them, she’d been partnering Daphne.
This was nothing like partnering Daphne.
His touch was sure, his steps smooth. She was constantly aware of how close he was, how near their bodies. His arm brushed her chest as they moved; her cheek grazed his as they turned. With his gaze on hers, she felt more beautiful than Priscilla, more graceful than Daphne on horseback, as brilliant as Ariadne. She knew there was nothing she couldn’t do.
Emily never wanted the music to stop, but stop it did. His steps slowed, and she slowed as well, sliding her hand down his strong arm. He caught it and brought both of her hands to his chest, tender, reverent. Mesmerized, she willed him to bend closer, to bridge the distance between his lips and hers.
And he did.
She closed her eyes, let herself feel the sweet pressure. Time seemed to stop, to stretch. When he drew back, he sounded as breathless as she felt.
“You should go in,” he murmured with a touch to her cheek.
“They’ll all be looking for you.”
She didn’t want to go, not now, not ever. She just wanted to be here with him. But that couldn’t be. He was right. She had responsibilities, duties, the Royal Society to join, an entire Season to enjoy.
“When will I see you again?” she asked, suddenly afraid.
His smile was a promise. “Soon.”
She smiled back. “Then, until later, Jamie.”
He grinned. “Until later, Emily.”
She held his hand a moment longer, then stepped away from him to return to the ball. Surely there would be other dances, other kisses with the man she loved. Some might even be better than this.
She could only dream.
The End