by Regina Scott
“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 her mother.
“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 question his career as a jewel thief.”
“Just because Acantha found her hideous necklace doesn’t mean he didn’t steal Lady Minerva’s pearls,” Ariadne protested as if she was loath to see a good plot discredited. “And he could very well have stolen something from Lady Skelcroft.”
Emily started. Was that what Jamie had picked up on the floor of the marchioness’s bedchamber that night? Had Lady Skelcroft sent for Bow Street about a missing jewel only to find that she had misplaced her bauble as well? “I don’t know what to think,” she admitted to her friends.
“Then what are we to do?” Priscilla exclaimed. “You cannot give up! We could never be happy knowing you were consigned to that shallow fellow! And what of your painting? If nothing else, think of the Ball, Emily–roses, fairies, goldfish!”
“Perhaps you could just tell Lord Robert you wish to attend 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 tract on it,” Daphne agreed, returning to them. “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.
“I still say he’s up to something,” Ariadne insisted. She pulled a smaller sack from her reticule and set it down on the sketch of the green gown.
“I agree,” Emily said. “But what?”
“Perhaps you should discuss the matter with His Grace,” Daphne suggested. “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 has the right of it. 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 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!”
Chapter Thirteen
As if Lord Robert knew they were determined to thwart him, he called on Emily the next morning. Indeed, she hadn’t planned to follow him nearly so early, as she’d thought he wouldn’t rise before noon. Certainly Lady Minerva was still abed and not likely to attend them, which meant this was Emily’s chance to quiz him! Immediately she began preparing strategies. But then she learned he’d brought an acquaintance.
“Lady St. Gregory,” Warburton intoned as he ushered the lady and Lord Robert into the sitting room.
There she stood, the one person Emily most longed to meet. Emily could scarcely breathe with the enormity of it. A shame she didn’t look like a serious artist. Today of all days she’d donned her least favorite gown, a pink one with a hideous row of triple ruffles around the hem. Her father had had it 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 ten years Emily’s senior. Her glossy black hair was swept back from a high-cheek-boned 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.
“I’m so glad you could find time to visit,” Emily told her. “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 the head mistress of the Barnsley School 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 the hem of her blue skirts, 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. “I assure you I care passionately about the scenes I paint.”
“No doubt,” Lady St. Gregory said.
Why had she 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.
“Perhaps if I saw some variability,” the gatekeeper to the artistic world continued. “Some emotionality. Do you expect to finish anything else soon?”
The War of the Roses was still languishing upstairs, but she could not think it any more emotional. What was this insistence on emotion anyway?
“I have been busy,” Emily admitted, carefully omitting the reason. She couldn’t very well admit to spying on her betrothed when he was sitting smiling so charmingly a few feet from her.
“Ah, yes,” Lady St. Gregory said with a nod. “Lord Robert mentioned you were helping Miss Tate plan her come out ball. A shame you cannot attend.”
Emily’s smile was
tight. “Whatever makes you say that? I assure you I will be there. I might even bring a painting to display.” She glanced at Lord Robert, daring him to contradict her.
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 it is unlikely she will be attending, I thought 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 deception? What would it profit him?
“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. Besides, she didn’t need a 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. “Very likely not.” 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 stood and watched Lady St. Gregory leave, then shook his head. “My, that did not go well.”
“No, it did not.” She 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. “Now, now,” he said, reaching out to pat her hand. “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 assured her. “But now that you know, you can go on to other things.”
Go on? Stop painting? She could as easily stop breathing! She forced her bones to straighten, her head to rise. “No, I must keep trying. If these are lacking, I must learn to do better.”
“How brave you are,” Lord Robert murmured. His finger caressed her cheek, and she felt as if he were tracing a pattern inside her. “Most people would surrender after such a set down.”
“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. It 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 were a bunch of stuffy old artists for a touch as warm as this?
What was she thinking? What was she doing?! She yanked herself out of his arms and stood on shaking legs. He gazed up at her, brows raised, eyes soft. He seemed to expect her to pledge her undying devotion.
And what was she to say? She knew where her devotion lay. The Royal Society was waiting, ready to recognize her as they had other accomplished artists among the aristocracy. Artists of the Royal Society were patronized by the Queen and the Royal Princesses, the works admired far and wide. She would be the most fortunate of mortals if she were allowed to join them.
“Thank you for bringing Lady St. Gregory,” she told Lord Robert. “It was most kind of you. I’m sure you understand when I say you’ve given me much to think about.”
He rose, smile gentle, as if he knew the storm that raged inside her. “Of course. But I shall see you the day after tomorrow, at our engagement dinner. We’ll be signing the settlement papers then.”
His tone was firm, and she knew she should agree. Once she signed those papers, she was as good as married. There’d be no crying off, not unless he did turn out to be something altogether horrid like a jewel thief. But at the moment, all she could give him was a nod. He seemed to accept that, for he offered her a bow and went to the door.
As soon as she knew he was gone, she collapsed onto the nearest chair. Why was he being so nice? He’d forgotten to mourn his own father, banished the woman he claimed to love from his feelings with no more thought than he’d give the morning’s tepid tea. Why encourage her? Why help her? Could it be Lord Robert felt something for her after all?
As it was, her feelings were as jumbled as an upset paint box. How wonderful to think someone cared as much about her painting as she did! How noble that he’d tried to find a compromise that allowed her to keep her dreams. How ridiculous that the best he could find to praise in her work was the nasty look on a horse’s face! How horrid that Lady St. Gregory of all people could see nothing more.
But Emily had to show her more! The ball was Emily’s last chance. Lady St. Gregory would never be convinced to return to the townhouse now. Emily had to create the perfect painting, a feast for the eyes, the epitome of beauty and grace, and all within the next six days!
Unfortunately, for any of that to happen, she must also prove Lord Robert a criminal, once and for all. And that meant following him now.
She just hoped he truly was a criminal and not simply out to steal her heart.
Chapter Fourteen
“You will drop me at the corner of Bond Street and Picadilly,” Lady Minerva ordered as Priscilla’s family coach set off from the Courdebas household. Emily had dispatched a note immediately to Priscilla, who had come for her, and now Ariadne and Daphne squished themselves in beside her across from Emily and her aunt, who had insisted upon chaperoning.
“And you will return for me in exactly two hours,” she continued now, peering down her long nose at all four girls in turn. “Or I shall carry tales to your parents. Do I make myself clear?”
Emily and Priscilla exchanged glances. Two hours was a woefully short time in which to stalk Lord Robert, particularly when Emily wasn’t sure where he’d gone after leaving her.
“We’ll return the carriage to Priscilla’s parents by dinner,” Emily countered, “and you can take a hack home.”
Daphne’s eyes widened as if Lord Snedley would never approve of bargaining with a family member. Ariadne, pencil already in hand, noted something in her journal.
Lady Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay for the hack, then. And a new bonnet.”
“What!” Priscilla cried.
Emily knew better than to argue. “Done,” she agreed. She pulled some coins from her reticule and handed them to her aunt. Lady Minerva bit one as if to make sure it was really gold, then nodded.
“Our usual arrangement,” she reminded Emily as the groom helped her alight. By that Emily knew she would disavow all knowledge if they were caught.
“She really is a terrible creature,” Priscilla complained as the coach set off down Bond Street.
Emily shrugged. “We understand each other. Sometimes it worries me that we think so much alike. Now, how do we think like Lord Robert?”
Priscilla waved a hand. “Quite easily. Gentlemen have a limited sphere of interests, if you ask me. Most likely he is a creature of habit. Try Gentleman Jackson’s.”
Emily could not argue there either, so Priscilla directed Mr. Wells, their coachman, up the street, and they waited outside the famed pugilist’s academy. A number of fellows entered and exited, and Emily had begun to think Priscilla was wrong for once when she sighted a familiar russet head.
“He’s coming out the door,” she said to the others as she squinted through the crack in the shutters on the carriage window.
As Daphne smothered a squeal, Priscilla rapped on the panel above their heads. A moment later, the panel was slid aside, and the florid face of her family coachman appeared.
“You know what to do, Mr. Wells,” Priscilla said.
“Yes, Miss.” He shut the panel, and the coach moved forward.
“What will we do if Lord Robert notices us?” Ariadne whispered as if their quarry was standing just outside the door.
“He won’t notice us,” Emily predicted. “How many brown carriages are there in London with unremarkable horses?”
“That’s the first time,” Priscilla said, “I’ve ever considered it a blessing.”
It was a considerable blessing. The way Lord Robert felt about carriages, he would have recognized His Grace’s carriage with its ducal arms emblazoned on the door. He would certainly have noticed the pair of perfectly matched black horses Daphne and Ariadne’s father used to pull their carriage. Priscilla’s rather drab equipage blended right in. And it wasn’t a tilbury.