by Anna Bradley
It wasn’t at all the thing for a young, unmarried lady to gape at portraits of harlots, not least because gentlemen tended to be more frequent visitors to that part of the exhibit, and it was tucked into rather a remote corner of the museum, so as not to offend the virtuous.
Emma wasn’t, alas, one of the virtuous, nor was she shy of harlots.
Poor Lord Lovell, however, looked as if he was about to swallow his tongue. “Are you all right, my lord? You seem a trifle warm.”
“Yes, yes, indeed.” Lord Lovell ran a finger under the edge of his cravat. “But are you certain you wouldn’t rather see the duchess’s portrait, Lady Emma, or the military portraits? The one of General Burgoyne is an especially good likeness.”
“Oh no, my lord. Military portraits are rather dull, and I’ve been longing to see Mrs. Fisher, and the portrait of Emma Hamilton as Bacchante.”
Lord Lovell’s blush deepened at mention of Emma Hamilton. Goodness, how singular. Emma had never seen a notorious rake blush before, but Lord Lovell didn’t seem much like any of the rakes she’d known, any more than his cousin was like other lords.
Emma didn’t care for rakes. She was too well acquainted with the damage they could do to find them intriguing, but there was something sweetly boyish about Lord Lovell, a vulnerability that made him seem younger than he was.
Younger, and very unlike a hardened villain.
Certainly, a man might look a picture of gentlemanliness when a monster was lurking just under the surface, but as far as she could tell, the only thing lurking under Lord Lovell’s surface was more tender skin.
He didn’t seem at all the sort of despicable fiend who’d hurt a young lady, but Caroline Francis swore he had. Caroline’s word was all they had so far regarding Amy and Kitty’s disappearances, so until Emma knew better, she’d follow where it led.
“You’re welcome to accompany us, my lord.” Emma smiled and fluttered her eyelashes at him, hoping to hurry him along before his enormous cousin emerged from whatever corner he was lurking behind. Lord Lymington might have prevented her from dancing with Lord Lovell last night, but she’d have her way this afternoon.
“I think I must, yes, as I don’t like to send you there without an escort.”
“Why, how chivalrous you are, Lord Lovell.” Lady Crosby took the arm he offered, beaming at him, but as soon as they reached the exhibit, she announced herself much too fatigued to take another step, and waved them off to admire the paintings while she sank onto a stone bench in the corner.
Emma hid her smile. For all her fluffy white hair and grandmotherly charm, Lady Crosby had taken to subterfuge as if she’d emerged from the womb with a dagger in her hand and a secret on her lips.
“Did you enjoy yourself at Almack’s last night, Lord Lovell?” Emma didn’t pause to allow him to answer, but rushed on with a gasp. “Oh, look, my lord! It’s Nelly O’Brien’s portrait. My goodness, she looks rather prim, doesn’t she? Nothing like I’d imagine a courtesan would look. She bore the Earl of Thanet three illegitimate sons, you know.”
Lord Lovell made a faint choking sound. “Yes, I, ah…I do believe I heard that. But to answer your question, Lady Emma, I found Almack’s a bit disappointing, as I didn’t share even one dance with you. I do hope you and Lady Crosby are attending Lady Swinton’s ball this evening, so I might have another chance.”
“I believe my grandmother intends it, yes.”
“May I solicit your hand for the first two dances, Lady Emma?”
Emma cast him a sidelong glance. Unlike his cousin, Lord Lovell knew very well how to play the gallant. “You’re not flirting with me, are you, Lord Lovell?”
“Flirting? Certainly not. That would be improper.” Lovell grinned at her and pressed a hand over hers. “But you won’t be so hard-hearted as to refuse me?”
“Oh, very well. I’ll dance with you, my lord, though I daresay I’ll regret it when all the other young ladies are shooting daggers at me with their eyes.”
He raised her hand to his lips, but stopped short of touching them to her glove. “Are there any other young ladies in London aside from you, Lady Emma? If so, I didn’t notice them.”
Emma laughed, the bright sound ringing in the close chamber. Goodness, he was a practiced flirt, wasn’t he? If she were the sweet young innocent she was pretending to be, it would never occur to her this was merely a game to him, and her heart would be in his possession already.
But she wasn’t an innocent. She was a performer, just as Lord Lovell was. Emma gave him a prim look, and withdrew her hand from his. “Hush, Lord Lovell. You’re a dreadful liar.”
“How can you say so?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Such cruelty, Lady Emma! Your accusations wound me.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be betrothed to some young lady or other before the end of the season, and won’t spare me another glance.” My, how the young ladies’ tears would flow when Lord Lovell’s heart was taken. London would be drowned in them.
“Betrothed? Heavens, what an accusation. I assure you, I’m not seeking any such thing. Why, the season’s only just begun, my lady, and already you have me caught in the parson’s mousetrap.” Lord Lovell laughed, but it rang a bit hollow. “I demand to know which lady I’m meant to be marrying, and where you heard such a scandalous falsehood.”
Emma blinked. Well, there was nothing rehearsed about that reaction. “Never, my lord. I know when to hold my tongue.”
Such a vehement protest against the parson’s mousetrap made Emma wonder if Lord Lovell had one foot caught in it already. Perhaps Lord Lymington was telling the truth about his cousin’s affections being already engaged.
She couldn’t ask, of course. Proper young ladies didn’t quiz gentlemen about courtships, betrothals, or their mistresses. Though that was rather splitting hairs, since she did intend to quiz him about ruining, kidnapping, and possibly murdering his aunt’s housemaids.
But not today.
“If I were to have my own portrait painted, I’d like it to be done like this one.” Emma paused in front of Reynolds’s portrait of the courtesan Emily Warren as Thaïs. “See how commanding she looks with her torch? I believe I’d like to carry a torch and stride triumphantly through the flames, as she does here.”
“You must—nay, you will be painted, Lady Emma, for what artist could resist a face as perfect as yours? You must be painted as Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty—”
“Not Aphrodite, Lovell,” said a deep voice from behind them. “I think Lady Emma is more like Athena, the goddess of warcraft.”
Lord Lovell whirled around. “Lymington! I, ah…was just on my way to come find you.”
“I’ve no doubt of it, cousin.”
Lovell was flustered at Lord Lymington’s sudden appearance, but Emma wasn’t. She’d known all along he’d sniff them out sooner or later. “Good afternoon, Lord Lymington. I thought you must be here somewhere.”
Lord Lymington offered her a polite bow, not taking his eyes off her, even as he addressed his cousin. “Your mother is fatigued, Lovell, and ready to return home.”
“Yes, of course.” A guilty flush rose to Lord Lovell’s cheeks, but he took a moment to raise Emma’s hand to his lips. “Remember your promise, Lady Emma, about the first two dances at tonight’s ball.” With that, he went off to do his cousin’s bidding.
“Emma, my dear?” Lady Crosby had kept to her bench while Emma flirted with Lovell, but at Lord Lymington’s appearance her brows furrowed with concern, and she half rose from her seat.
As well she might. Lord Lymington was a good deal more concerning than his cousin—it was rather like the difference between a playful kitten and a ravenous lion.
“It’s all right, Grandmother.” Emma’s gaze remained fixed on the painting before her. “Do keep resting. I’ll fetch you once I’ve finished with the portraits.”
Lord L
ymington didn’t follow his cousin, but kept his place beside Emma. She could feel his dark gaze on the side of her face like a touch, but she remained silent, studying the painting before them, and waiting.
“Do you have an interest in courtesans, Lady Emma?” Lord Lymington drawled, once Lord Lovell’s footsteps had faded to silence.
And just like that, all of Emma’s careful schemes to manage Lord Lymington vanished in a burst of annoyance. “Do you have a quarrel with courtesans, Lord Lymington?”
Naturally, he had a quarrel with courtesans, just like every other gentleman did. Once they’d finished with them, that is. Such was the hypocrisy of England’s privileged class. One would think she’d be used to it by now, but perhaps she never would be.
He shrugged. “Not with courtesans, no, though I do have a quarrel with the men who turn into brutes the moment they step foot inside a brothel.”
Emma had been studying the portrait of Emily Warren, but she jerked her attention to Lord Lymington, and was taken aback to see his face had darkened with a scowl. “I’m surprised to hear you say so, my lord. Gentlemen tend to overlook their own culpability in their dealings with bawds and brothels.”
“Some gentlemen overlook their culpability in all their dealings, Lady Emma, but not every gentleman. A gentleman may choose not to visit a courtesan, whereas most courtesans don’t choose to become one. If there is any wrongdoing in the practice, it lies with those who have the choice.”
Choice. Yes, that was a luxury, indeed.
Emma thought of Helena, and Madame Marchand and Lord Peabody, and bitterness swelled in her chest, the taste of it coating her tongue, and she turned back to the portrait to hide her expression from Lord Lymington. “Nearly every gentleman in London frequents courtesans, my lord. None of them are much inclined to chastise themselves for it.”
“Indeed. But you never answered my question, Lady Emma.”
“Your question, my lord?”
“I asked if you take an interest in courtesans.” He nodded at the portrait of Emily Warren, her flaming torch held high, an avenging angel setting everything in her path ablaze.
“It’s an impertinent question, Lord Lymington. I don’t feel obligated to answer it.”
“I beg your pardon. I meant no offense. It’s just that I couldn’t think of any reason why you’d wish to visit this exhibit, particularly in company with my cousin.”
Emma made herself look directly into those glittering gray eyes, and smiled. “Perhaps I’m merely interested in Reynolds’s portraiture, my lord.”
“Ah.” One corner of his lip twitched in what might have been a smile on another man. “You do recall our conversation regarding Lord Lovell, do you not, Lady Emma?”
“I do recall it, yes. It was last night, my lord.”
There was a brief pause, then, “Did I not make myself clear?”
“On the contrary, Lord Lymington. You made yourself perfectly clear.”
“Yet here we are. Why is that, Lady Emma?”
Emma paused, studying him. It was a pleasant spring day in London, and the rays of sun shining through a nearby window illuminated his face. In this light his resemblance to his cousin was more pronounced. They had the same angular jaw, the same prominent cheekbones and straight, proud noses, but Lord Lymington’s hair was darker, his eyes a stormy gray instead of Lovell’s lively blue.
Lord Lymington was handsome, Emma noticed with vague surprise, though he had none of his cousin’s boyish charm. “I believe it’s Lord Lovell’s business to decide who he wishes to honor with his company, Lord Lymington. He’s not a child.”
“I’m aware that he is not, Lady Emma.”
“Are you? I would have said otherwise.”
Lord Lymington’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around the silver head of his walking stick. “Explain yourself, please.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but if you were aware of it, you wouldn’t feel the need to follow after him as if he were a naughty schoolboy. I wonder what Lord Lovell would think, if he knew you were chasing the young ladies at Almack’s away from him.”
He took a step toward her, his jaw tight. “Are you threatening me, Lady Emma?”
Oh, dear. He didn’t care for that at all. It was a pity Sir Joshua Reynolds was dead, because the expression on Lord Lymington’s face was worthy of the efforts of the finest artist. “Me, threaten you, my lord? Certainly not.”
“It sounds as if you are.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lord Lymington.”
“It isn’t your place to wonder anything about Lord Lovell, Lady Emma.” Lord Lymington’s tone was clipped, every syllable resonant with authority.
Goodness. Lord Lovell had the right of it, when he said all of his cousin’s words sounded like commands.
No, there was nothing of the boy in Lord Lymington. No guile, either, and no mercy.
And now all of his doggedness, his extraordinary persistence was focused on being rid of her, and it didn’t appear to Emma to be a simple matter of his preferring a different lady for his cousin.
No, he seemed to object to her, specifically. Or, not her, but Lady Emma Crosby.
Unless he’d somehow discovered who she really was?
If he’d been anyone else, she’d have scoffed at the idea, but Emma’s instincts warned her not to underestimate Lord Lymington. No secrets were safe from a man like him. If she was obliged to tangle with him—and it looked as if she would be—he’d prove a fierce adversary.
Under cover of her skirts, Emma’s knees were wobbling, but she raised her chin and met his eyes. “I won’t be commanded by you, Lord Lymington. If you imagine I’ll scurry out of your way like a timid schoolgirl just out of pinafores, you’re very much mistaken.”
“Am I, indeed?” One dark eyebrow rose. “How refreshing.”
Dear God, that glower. “I imagine most young ladies quiver in their slippers at a single glare from you, but I’m not one of them.”
“No?” He caught her upraised chin between his fingers. “What does make you quiver, Lady Emma?”
Emma sucked in a breath, unable to hide her shock. Not at the innuendo—she’d heard far worse—but that he’d say it to Lady Emma Crosby, daughter of an earl, a sweet young innocent who’d never set foot outside of Somerset.
He must know who she really was. He must, or he’d never dare—
“Forgive me.” Lord Lymington released her, his hand dropping away from her face as if her skin had burned him. “Whatever your game is, I’d advise you to think carefully before you choose to play it with me.”
“Game? I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do, my lady. I think you know precisely what I mean.”
Uneasiness tightened Emma’s stomach, but she held her ground, chin still raised. “I haven’t the faintest idea, my lord, but you’ll have to enlighten me at some other time. My grandmother is fatigued, and must rest before our engagement tonight.”
Lord Lymington offered her a polite bow, but his narrowed gray eyes seemed to see right through her. “Of course, Lady Emma.”
Emma couldn’t quite suppress a flinch at the cold edge with which he said her name, and didn’t wait to hear any more, but hurried back to Lady Crosby.
When they reached the carriage, they found Daniel standing beside it, a note from Helena in his hand, which he handed over to Emma. “Here ye are, lass.”
Emma waited until they were settled in the carriage and on their way to Mayfair before she tore it open and read the few lines Helena had scrawled. “She says as far as she can tell, Lord Lovell didn’t mention a word to anyone about Caroline Francis.”
“Do you suppose he doesn’t yet realize she’s there?” Lady Crosby asked. “Perhaps that isn’t so surprising. The family has been in mourning since the previous Lord Lovell passed.”
; Emma considered it, then shook her head. “Perhaps, but that would be strange, wouldn’t it? If you were Lord Lovell, and you’d committed a crime, wouldn’t you make it your business to keep track of the one lady who could expose you?”
Lady Crosby frowned. “Perhaps Lord Lovell didn’t commit the crimes Caroline’s accused him of, after all. Then he’d have no reason to worry about where she is.”
“But why would Caroline lie about it?”
“I don’t know. What else does Helena say?” Lady Crosby peered over Emma’s shoulder at the letter. “I can’t make out a word of her scrawl.”
“Only that the ladies at the Pink Pearl were all atwitter at Lord Lovell’s appearance, and that all of them were vying for his attention before he led his chosen companion to a bedchamber upstairs—” Emma glanced at Lady Crosby. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
Lady Crosby waved a dismissive hand. “My dear Emma, by the time you reach my age, nothing shocks you.”
“Well, that’s something to look forward to.” Emma grinned at her, then glanced back down at the note in her hands. “It may be that Lord Lovell does know Caroline is at the Pink Pearl, and he wants her to be aware he knows. He must have realized the entire brothel would be in an uproar when Lord Lovely appeared at the Pink Pearl. Caroline couldn’t have failed to hear of it, despite not being there that night.”
Lady Crosby patted Emma’s hand. “It’s all quite peculiar, but I have utter faith in you, Emma. Until you sort it out, however, we’ll have to bear with there being a great many questions, and not many answers.”
Emma settled against the squabs and closed her eyes, but behind her eyelids, her head was spinning. A potentially murderous viscount, a marchioness who hadn’t breathed a single word about her missing servants, and a marquess who was determined to frighten away his cousin’s admirers.
Peculiar, indeed.
Under cover of the darkness in the carriage, she reached up and trailed her fingertips over her chin. She could still feel the imprint of Lord Lymington’s fingers there, warm and firm against her skin.