The Lady Emily Capers, Set One

by Regina Scott

  “And what scintillating conversation have I interrupted?” he asked, spreading his coattails to sit on the chair closest to hers.

  Priscilla and Ariadne exchanged glances again, and Emily glared at them in warning as she took her seat once more.

  “We were discussing etiquette, my lord,” Daphne announced, affixing him with a narrow-eyed look. “And how do you feel about the subject?”

  Lord Robert pursed his lips as he leaned back in the chair and stretched out his legs. They were quite long. Priscilla was eying them as if measuring each inch.

  “I suppose I’ve never given it much thought,” he said, spreading his hands. “A gentleman is merely a gentleman.”

  Emily frowned, but Priscilla jumped in to the conversation. “But surely it is good etiquette to congratulate you, my lord. We were so excited to hear of your engagement.”

  Excited was hardly the word, but he could not know that as he smiled at her. “I am the most fortunate of mortals.” He ran a hand along Emily’s arm. She supposed the gesture was meant to be romantic, but it felt possessive. She knew she was, by her nature, entirely too suspicious, but she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. How could he be so nauseatingly perfect, so delighted with marrying her? As a child, he’d teased and tormented her. She’d always considered him a toad!

  Priscilla clapped her hands together. “Oh, I just had a vision! We will toast your engagement at the Ball! I’ve heard of the most cunning fountain, all bubbles and froth, and the ladies might dip their goblets for a taste. It will be the talk of London!”

  Lord Robert withdrew his hand from Emily’s arm. “Ball? What ball?”

  “My and Emily’s coming out Ball,” Priscilla said, dimples popping into view once more. “On April fourteenth. Do say you’ll come.”

  His smile was sad. “Unfortunately, that is impossible. Lady Emily and I will be married and in Devonshire by then.”

  “We most certainly will not,” Emily argued.

  As he frowned, Priscilla put in smoothly, “Surely Lord Robert is teasing us. No gentleman would deprive his betrothed of her first Season.” Emily thought she was not the only one who heard the steel behind the tone.

  “It is with great regret that I must do so, Miss Tate,” Lord Robert assured her. “Most likely Lady Emily has mentioned to you that my dear father went to his reward this past October. My poor mother, Lady Wakenoak, is heartbroken. As this marriage was my father’s dream, I ease her pain by honoring his wishes as expediently as good taste allows.”

  “My condolences on your loss,” Emily said, remembering His Grace mentioning Lord Wakenoak’s passing in a letter and feeling like a selfish oaf for wanting to distress the poor widow further. “But I truly do not wish to wed.”

  “Especially before the Ball,” Priscilla added.

  His russet brows drew together as if he were not certain how Emily could refuse him. Very likely, so few people ever had.

  Daphne nodded her support. “We’ve been looking forward to this Ball for ages, my lord. It is the pinnacle of our achievements and signals to the world that we are ready to take our rightful places in Good Society.”

  “Well said,” Ariadne put in admiringly. “I shall ask you to repeat that later so I can copy it into my journal.”

  As Daphne beamed, Lord Robert leaned closer to Emily. “Surely,” he murmured, “we shouldn’t quarrel over such a small matter, my pet.”

  Those lovely blue eyes pleaded for understanding. It was quite like looking into the coming night and the secrets it promised. The thought set her cheeks aflame.

  “This is no small matter, sir,” Priscilla protested. “Lady Emily has plans for her Season. She intends to gain entrance to the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts.”

  The Royal Society. Her paintings. Her dreams made Lord Robert’s lovely eyes fade in comparison. Emily rose, head high. Even the swish of her wool skirts sounded defiant. “Yes, Lord Robert. Joining the society is the only way for me to become an acknowledged artist. Painting is my life’s passion.”

  Though he ought to have stood when she had, he gazed up at her, smile as solid as the muscles beneath his tailored coat. “Now, now. Every young lady seems to consider herself an artist until she has better ways to spend her time. I’m certain you will have no trouble leaving it behind. Besides, we will be in Devonshire by a week from tomorrow, so you will not be able to attend Miss Tate’s ball or any meetings of the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts.”

  As Emily joined Priscilla in glaring at him, he rose at last. “Ladies, I should remember my purpose in calling. My mother is hosting a dinner party on Sunday to celebrate the engagement. Because His Grace is so busy, we’ll likely sign the marriage settlements then as well. I trust you can all come.”

  Emily wanted to pick up the teapot and douse his ridiculous smile. He had the audacity to ruin her entire Season, nay her entire life! And then expected her and her friends to dine with him?

  Was he nothing but artifice? Had he no sensibilities? No refinement of spirit?

  No idea he had laid down a challenge she had no choice but to accept? For she would not give up her painting, and Lord Robert Townsend would rue the day he dared to stop her.

  Chapter Three

  She threw him out, of course. Or rather, she stalked out of the elegant withdrawing room, forcing him to follow, and led him down the carpeted stairs to Warburton.

  “Our guest has a pressing engagement,” she said. “Please see him out.”

  Lord Robert blinked, but his good manners apparently prevented him from arguing with her. He suffered himself to pick up his top hat and gloves and be ushered out the door by an ever dignified Warburton.

  When Emily returned to the withdrawing room, she could see that her friends were not nearly so composed. Indeed, they looked as depressed as she felt. Priscilla was staring off in the distance, her chest rising and falling as if she concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. Ariadne sat slumped in her chair, her reticule pooled in the lap of her gown like a wilted flower. Daphne chewed her lower lip and blinked rapidly as if fighting tears. Either that or Lord Snedley advised blinking when faced with imminent disaster.

  Seeing Emily in the doorway, Priscilla rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. “Everyone up. We have no time for this nonsense. We have much to do in the next eleven days.”

  As Emily frowned, Daphne obligingly leaped to her feet, setting the teapot on the table in front of her to clattering.

  Ariadne got up more slowly. “What must we do?”

  Priscilla waved her hands as if shooing away any potential objections. “Prepare for the Ball, of course!”

  Daphne brightened. “Then the Ball is still on?”

  “The Ball,” Priscilla said with a sniff, “was never off.”

  “That is news to me,” Emily said, moving into the room. “What do you know that I have missed, Pris?”

  Priscilla raised her chin so that her golden curls caught the sunlight. “Only that you cannot listen to Lord Robert. Some gentlemen are entirely too full of themselves, and I can see that he’s one of them.”

  “I told you he was not to be trusted,” Daphne added. “A gentleman is a gentleman indeed.” She narrowed her sky blue eyes. “Perhaps he should read Lord Snedley.”

  Emily knew she should probably invite them to sit back down and have a cup of tea, but the silver pot and the dainty flowered China cups had never looked less inviting. Instead she wandered to the window and gazed out at the street below. Fine carriages and gentlemen in tailored coats hurried past, as if they enjoyed their freedom. Was she never to have any?

  “Lord Robert has always been arrogant,” she told her friends. “Once when we were children, he held my riding crop over my head and refused to give it back until I kissed his boots. I was fully prepared to spit on them instead, but his older brother intervened.”

  “He seems to be thinking of his family instead of himself in this instance,” Ariadne pointed out. “He was most intent in s
upporting his widowed mother.” She sighed as if she found the trait highly commendable.

  Emily supposed it was. Certainly she had wondered whether the marriage might please her father. She puffed out a sigh that fogged the glass. “I cannot quite believe Lord Robert is so reformed.” She turned to face the others. “He must be up to something.”

  Priscilla shook her head. “I never have understood why you must see the dark in every situation, Emily, but I fear you’re right this time.”

  Ariadne rubbed a hand along the muslin of her skirt. “Perhaps his love of Emily motivates him to marry so quickly. Perhaps he cannot bear to share her with the rest of the world.” She blinked. “Oh, that’s good.”

  Priscilla shook her head again. “If he truly loved her he would want her to be happy. How can she possibly be happy if we must cancel the Ball?”

  “He didn’t say you must cancel it,” Ariadne reminded her. “Only that Lady Emily cannot attend. You could still come out.”

  Priscilla touched her slender neck as if she felt unseen hands strangling her. “Impossible. His Grace is funding the event. Mother has told everyone the Duke of Emerson’s daughter is a dear friend. The Prince won’t come just to see me, and neither will a great many others in London Society, not after Aunt Sylvia’s fall from grace. We may have hidden the full extent of the scandal, but they’ll all have heard she’s now residing with keepers.”

  Ariadne and Daphne’s faces melted into pity. Emily knew her face must look much the same.

  “It isn’t your fault your aunt went mad and tried to smother Lord Brentfield with a feather pillow,” Ariadne assured Priscilla, hurrying up to her and laying a hand on her arm. “Who could possibly have foreseen that outcome?”

  They all nodded. They had discussed last month’s strange events at Brentfield Manor so many times there was no need to go over the fine points. The four of them had gone to the estate under Miss Alexander’s chaperonage to spend Easter holiday with Priscilla’s widowed aunt, the Countess of Brentfield, only to learn that the countess had grown greedy. Unsatisfied with her widow’s portion, she’d set her cap at the new Lord Brentfield instead. When the fellow had preferred Miss Alexander to her or even Priscilla, she’d tried to kill him. She might have succeeded if Emily hadn’t suspected her. And if Priscilla’s aunt hadn’t taken a bad fall while trying to escape, the woman might even now be in Newgate Prison, waiting to be hanged.

  And wouldn’t that have been a terrible scandal!

  “Aunt Sylvia’s madness surprised everyone,” Priscilla said now, lowering her gaze, “most of all my parents. Unfortunately, Aunt Sylvia’s money was to pay for my Season. All I have is the gowns she already purchased. If I am to redeem us, I must marry well.”

  “But what of love?” Ariadne asked with a frown.

  Priscilla raised her head and tossed her curls. “I imagine love and compatibility are very nice for those who can afford them. After this business at Brentfield, I must look for more.”

  Emily felt as if her own heart was tightening. “And in doing so, you settle for less,” she murmured.

  Priscilla’s fingers gripped her gown as if she would tear the fabric. “Do you think I like it? But every day I’m reminded of the necessity. Father is a shadow of himself, scuttling around as if he caused the scandal. Mother has lost all confidence. She frets and moans over every decision, as if my come out alone can save us.”

  Emily crossed the room to her side and joined Ariadne in laying a hand on Priscilla. “I am truly sorry for your aunt’s madness. You deserve better.”

  Tears clustered on Priscilla’s golden lashes. “And you deserve a handsome, charming husband who appreciates your art.”

  “I am convinced such a fellow does not exist,” Emily began, but Ariadne dropped her hold and raised her head.

  “I have it! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It’s a perfectly good gambit, used by any number of playwrights. You must do something horrid, Emily, to give him a disgust of you so he will be more than happy to release you from the engagement.”

  The others brightened as well, but Emily could not be so easily convinced. If he had not already been frightened off by her looks or her demeanor, he was unlikely to let her go so easily. “And how would I do that?” she asked.

  “Stuff yourself at dinner,” Ariadne advised. “Ladies must be dainty eaters. And complain of every ache and pain. I have been told that men hate that.”

  “Trip over the hem of your gown,” Daphne added. “Drop your fork on the floor—at least twice. And belch, at every course, loudly.”

  “I shall not only disgust them,” Emily predicted, “I will disgust myself as well.”

  “You need not go so far,” Priscilla said. “Simply show them your paintings.”

  For a full three ticks of the Tompion clock on the mantle, no one said anything.

  “The one commemorating when Miss Alexander killed that horrendous spider,” Daphne said, bouncing in her enthusiasm. “I could not eat for days after seeing it.”

  “I gave it to Miss Alexander as a wedding present,” Emily replied, raising her chin.

  “Then your rendition of the Crucifixion,” Ariadne argued. “The blood on our Lord’s face is so thick you can barely make out his features.”

  “That’s because no one knows his features,” Emily reminded her. “And I sent it to the Reverend Wellfordhouse in Wenwood to thank him for his kindness when we visited.”

  “One of your battle scenes then,” Priscilla insisted. “A particularly gruesome one like The Battle of Hastings. They will not want to be related to a woman who sees such things in her head, much less immortalizes them for all to see. Trust me, Emily. Show them one of your paintings, and your worries are over.”

  Emily wanted to be angry with her. She’d asked for help in a deeply personal matter, and the best Priscilla could do was malign her life’s passion? Emily didn’t dabble in watercolor bowls of fruit. She used oils, bold strokes, dark colors; she brought to life important subjects like the tragic deaths of heroes and glorious, blood-drenched battles. Her scenes were so real she fancied she felt the beat of the drummer calling the march, heard the roar of cannons in the distance. When she painted, she quite forgot that any other world existed.

  Emily was a good artist. Miss Alexander was a better one, and she said Emily was the best student she’d ever had. She said Emily had promise. Emily wanted to deflate Priscilla’s pretensions for daring to imply that Emily’s art would disgust anyone.

  Unfortunately, Priscilla was right.

  “It won’t be enough,” Emily predicted. “And I’d far prefer to know the reason behind this rush to a wedding. I am convinced we do not know the truth about Lord Robert Townsend.”

  “Then perhaps,” Priscilla said, deigning to sit at last, “we ought to send for Bow Street. It is their duty to investigate people.”

  “Of course!” Ariadne cried, dropping into a seat as well.

  “Bow Street!” Daphne intoned, eyes wide. “Even Lord Snedley would approve.”

  Hope seemed to be filling the room at last, brighter than the weak spring sunlight trickling through the window. Emily returned to her seat. “Is it possible to hire Bow Street?”

  “Quite possible,” Priscilla assured her, reaching for the teapot to pour herself a cup. “You can be sure Aunt Sylvia hired them to investigate any gentleman she was interested in attaching, just to be certain the fellow was aboveboard and sufficiently wealthy, of course.”

  “Lord Snedley advises that any acquaintance should undergo the most strict scrutiny before being given entrance to the inner sanctum,” Daphne advised. “Unless of course you admire their quizzing glass.”

  “Send for Bow Street, Emily,” Ariadne agreed. “They should be able to investigate Lord Robert and learn his secrets.”

  Emily nodded, taking the warm silver pot from Priscilla and pouring Daphne and Ariadne a cup. “It’s decided then. We’ll enlist the aid of Bow Street and determine exactly what Lord
Robert Townsend is up to.” They raised their cups in toast.

  *

  Jamie could not believe that he was calling at the Duke of Emerson’s home for the second day in a row. This time, however, it was at the stated request of the duke himself.

  “Seems he’s on to the fellow as well,” the clerk at the Bow Street office had reported when he’d told Jamie about the note that had arrived. “Best you hop over there and see what can be done.”

  Jamie had hopped, but instead of being ushered into the duke’s presence, the starched up butler Mr. Warburton had led him to the upstairs withdrawing room and into the inquisitive gazes of four lovely young ladies.

  He had to fight against adjusting his cravat as the butler said, “Mr. James Cropper of Bow Street to see you, Lady Emily.”

  “Of Bow Street?” Once more her dark eyes were narrowed at him, as if she suspected him of telling falsehoods. Last night she’d accused him of being a thief—him, the youngest fellow ever to be made thief-taker in Bow Street! He bowed to them all, then focused his gaze on her.

  “Of Bow Street,” he repeated. “I understand you have reason to believe Lord Robert Townsend is up to no good.”

  Immediately she swallowed and looked away. Had the cad already trifled with her affections? Jamie dropped his hand and felt his fist tightening at the thought.

  It was the girl with the cascade of golden curls who answered him, chin high and voice proud. “Indeed we do. He appears to be entirely uncivilized.”

  The rounder girl with the darker blond hair nodded. “He would be cast as the villain in any play, I’m convinced of it.”

  The taller girl with the hair as thick as warm honey nodded vigorously. “He cannot be bothered to attend to the social niceties. Lord Snedley says such men should be forced to sit upon pin cushions for a week.”