by Regina Scott
“Admirer is not the word for a man who watches a woman from behind bushes,” Emily said.
“Yes, of course,” Daphne said. “Lord Snedley calls them adventurers.”
Emily was less and less amused by the lord’s writing. “I doubt Mr. Cropper is an admirer or an adventurer. He had a more important purpose for being there; count on it. But at the moment, it is our purpose that concerns me. How are we to learn anything about Lord Robert if we never know where to look for him?”
“Perhaps the others had better luck,” Daphne suggested with an encouraging smile.
But when carriage stopped at the Courdebas’s home in Wallace Square, the family butler reported that Ariadne had not yet returned home. The best Emily could do was to leave Daphne with the promise that the four of them would regroup in the morning.
The next step in the investigation Ariadne had planned, Emily knew, was to interview Lord Robert’s servants. Emily didn’t have much hope there, as she hadn’t even been allowed into the Townsend townhouse. Besides, there was a question of loyalty.
No, it would be better to question someone well-versed in the way of the ton, someone who had the ear of servants and aristocracy alike, someone she trusted.
In a word, Warburton.
“Have you heard any rumors about the Townsends?” Emily asked her butler later that afternoon as Warburton served her tea on a silver tray in the quiet of her room. His Grace had not yet returned home, and Lady Minerva claimed to be taking a restorative nap, though what she’d done that was of such exertion she required a nap, Emily wasn’t sure.
Warburton had already placed a tasseled pillow at her back where she sat on an upholstered chair near the cozy fire and set a black footstool with gold fringe at her feet. His brows drew together as he straightened from spreading a damask napkin across her lap.
“Rumors about the Townsends?” he said. The silver teapot flashed as he picked it up to pour her a cup. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, your ladyship.”
She refused to let him get away so easily. “Couldn’t or won’t? If you will not tell me, Mr. Warburton, I will imagine the worst.” She eyed him as he set the pot back down. “Does Lord Robert beat his servants?”
Warburton drew himself up. “Certainly not. You must remember, they serve his brother, and the present Lord Wakenoak would not countenance such behavior toward the staff, even though he has been a bit lax in paying them.”
Emily selected a lemon biscuit and chewed slowly. So Lord Robert’s brother stiffed the staff. Reprehensible, but nothing she could lay at Robert’s door, unless their lack of funds had something to do with him. She swallowed and cocked her head. “I fear Lord Robert gambles.”
“Likely less than his father before him.”
That was most unhelpful. She had no idea how much the former Lord Wakenoak enjoyed the cards.
“Did his father gamble a great deal?”
“Perhaps more than is generally considered wise.”
Interesting, she thought, taking a sip of the chamomile. Too bad Warburton’s tidbit offered her nothing in her quest to discredit Lord Robert. She eyed her butler as he towered over her. “Does Lord Robert keep a mistress?”
He met her gaze by looking down his impressive nose. “That is not a conversation His Grace would want me to have with you.”
Her cheeks heated. He was quite right; it was a bold question. “But it is a conversation I must have,” she protested, “if I am to understand Lord Robert.”
“Then I suspect it is a conversation you should have with Lord Robert.”
He had a point. How would Robert react if she mentioned the matter? She pictured his stunned look and smiled.
Of course, that imagined look was no more stunned than the one on her maid Mary’s face when Emily began the same conversation as she changed to paint.
Mary was dark-haired and darker-eyed and a little on the pale side, or perhaps Emily just terrified her. Warburton had confided that Mary had been His Grace’s upstairs maid in London until she agreed to take on extra duties while Emily was there. His Grace didn’t apparently see the need to hire Emily a maid even though she was out of school. She could only hope that was not because he thought she was going to marry in a few days, and then she would be Lord Robert’s problem.
“Rumors?” Mary said, fair skin turning even paler.
Perhaps if she didn’t look directly at the woman. Emily turned to let the maid release the tapes that held her day dress closed. “Yes, rumors, stories. Gossip.”
“Well,” Mary said, tugging at the tapes, “everyone seems quite glad Lord Robert settled down.”
“Settled down from what?” Emily asked with a frown.
Mary’s fingers seemed to slow. “Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t say, your ladyship.”
Not her too. This would never do. “It’s quite all right to speak freely, Mary,” she said as gently as she could. “I won’t scold, I promise.”
Mary sighed as she finished with the gown and pulled it off, her breath brushing Emily’s bare skin. “It’s just that I want to do a good job, your ladyship. Being a lady’s maid has always been my dream. My sister’s one, you see, for an actress at Convent Garden.”
“I understand having a dream,” Emily said, turning to face her once again. “Lord Robert is currently threatening mine. I wish to paint, not marry someone who cares nothing for me. So, please, tell me, why did he have to settle down?”
Mary clutched the gown to her chest and lowered her voice, as if afraid the silk-covered walls might overhear. “He was a wild fellow, your ladyship. The other servants were talking about how he had a girl in every village around the family’s country estate. Even dallied with a merchant’s daughter here in town and a married lady.”
Oh, the cad! Hadn’t she said he was up to no good? She ought to be furious that anyone would think she should marry him!
Mary must have noticed that Emily had reddened, for the maid hurried to fetch one of her painting dresses, a sturdy cotton print in navy and green with long sleeves and a high neck. Even though Emily was careful to wear an apron over the gown, she could still see remnants of past painting. That crimson was from The Battle of Hastings, she was certain. There had been a great deal of blood in that one. And the saffron-colored streak was from The Battle of the Nile, as it matched the stripe along the side of Nelson’s ship.
“Now, don’t you worry, your ladyship,” Mary said, pulling the gown over Emily’s head and setting about fastening it up. “He chose you, didn’t he? That proves he intends to do right.”
Perhaps. But it might also prove that he’d simply bowed to pressure from his family. What better way to turn respectable than to marry the daughter of an old family friend, particularly when she was the daughter of a duke? There was nothing more respectable than marrying the daughter of a duke. So just how tame was Lord Robert Townsend now?
She considered the matter while she painted before dinner. Unfortunately, she quickly realized that Mary had handed her nothing she could use. Obviously His Grace knew all about Lord Robert’s reformation. He’d said he’s been discussing the wedding with Robert’s brother and Lord Robert. So she still had nothing she could tell her father that would change his mind and free her from the engagement.
And it wasn’t as if she cared how Robert dallied. She really didn’t want him to fall in love with her. But she’d thought, she’d hoped, that if she married, her husband would see more in her than merely her father’s consequence and good name. Was it not possible that someone might enjoy her company, appreciate her art, want to be with her simply for herself?
It was a bold thought, she knew. Some might even call it daring. Many of the marriages among the aristocracy had been made to unite families, increase funds. Love was a fanciful ideal. She’d been known to scoff at it herself, until she’d seen the blazing light of the love Lord Brentfield had conceived for Miss Alexander. Could it be that someone would look at her that way, as if she were the very air he breathed?
> That was quite fanciful enough. She forced herself to think about painting instead. She had been itching to start another battle scene, this time from the War of the Roses. She could just imagine all those feudal fighters in the colors of Lancaster and York. At least their roses weren’t pink.
She despised pink.
Truly, was there ever a more insipid color? It neither made the bold statement of red nor whispered the purity of white. Yet she was convinced that His Grace would be the happiest of men if she wore nothing but that color. Pink, he seemed to think, was singularly feminine.
It was simply not her.
Candles positioned strategically around the room as evening closed in around her, she set up the larger of the two seasoned canvasses that Miss Alexander had sent with her to London and stood staring at the creamy surface before sketching out the basic scene in charcoal. It would be a huge clash, the battle lines wavering, bodies strewn from here to the far horizon, her most glorious work yet. And maybe, in the foreground, a single trampled rose.
But still her focus eluded her. She kept looking at her outlined soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish to find someone close by who loved them, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?
She shook her head. This mawkish attitude was quite unlike her. Surely Mr. Cropper had put such thoughts in her head with his talk of how a wounded man felt about the situation. She should be concentrating on creating something of worth, something that would make Lady St. Gregory open her arms and welcome Emily into the Royal Society. What could be finer than the company of other artists, people who thought like she did, people who understood and respected her? She could not let Lord Robert, or James Cropper, spoil that future for her.
Even though a certain Bow Street Runner tried to spoil her evening.
She had just started mixing her paints when Warburton coughed from the doorway. “Mr. James Cropper to see you, your ladyship,” he informed her when she glanced in his direction.
James Cropper, here? Perhaps he’d reconsidered her request to investigate Lord Robert. What else could he possibly have to say to her? The very thought had her pulling off her apron and hurrying to follow Warburton down the corridor. But instead of continuing downstairs to the sitting room, he paused before another door.
Emily frowned. “You put him in the withdrawing room? That’s generally reserved for family and close friends.”
“Is he neither?” Warburton asked, one white brow upraised. “My mistake.”
She had never considered the fact that Warburton might make a mistake. The very idea seemed preposterous. But she had to agree that she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with James Cropper.
“Your aunt will be joining you shortly,” Warburton promised before opening the door for her. She was only glad to see that one of the footmen was already in the room, stoking up the fire, which somehow did not seem as vivid as Mr. Cropper’s hair.
Or as determined as the frown he aimed her way.
* * *
At the sound of the door opening, Jamie turned from the fire to regard the woman he’d come to see. He was ready to issue a stinging rebuke, a warning not to interfere in Bow Street business. But the sight of her made the words dry up in his mouth.
Gone were the fine silk gowns, the prim white gloves. Instead, a simple dress draped her lithe figure, and her graceful, long-fingered hands were bare.
No, not bare, he corrected himself. Color speckled them—scarlet and navy and emerald. Paint? She painted! He’d have to look at those canvasses downstairs again, but he’d wager they were all hers. Small wonder she’d been so prickly when he’d commented on them.
“Lady Emily,” he said, remembering the manners his mother had instilled in him and touching two fingers to his brow in respect. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“Mr. Cropper,” she said, moving into the room more warily than her usual brisk manner. “Have you come to apologize?”
Jamie dropped his hand with a smile. “I wasn’t aware I had done you a disservice, your ladyship.”
“You refused my commission,” she pointed out, approaching him with eyes narrowed. “Yet I find you skulking about near Lord Robert’s home. Perhaps you’ve come to offer an explanation.”
He took a step closer, aware of the open door and the footman at his back. “I’ve come to offer a warning. You’re mucking about with things beyond your ken. Stop now, before someone gets hurt.”
She met him gaze for gaze. “Someone is already hurt, Mr. Cropper.”
Had she heard the rumors then? He needed facts, not far-fetched fancies. “I’m not sure what you mean, Lady Emily,” he stalled.
Something was working in those dark eyes. Frustration vied with a darker emotion. Despair? Had the dastard dared to lay hands on her? Despite himself he touched her arm, gently, carefully. “Tell me.”
Her jaw worked a moment, then she took a deep breath. “I have recently become aware that Lord Robert may be less than a gentleman.”
He could feel her tremble with the knowledge. “Has he hurt you?”
She nodded, and his heart sank. Another life ruined! How many would have to suffer before the man was caught! He pulled back his hand, wishing he knew how to use it to set things right.
“He insists that I give up something precious to me,” she said. “Something I promised myself to pursue. He cares nothing for me. ”
Though he heard the frustration behind the words, he did not hear the bleak pain he had expected. He gathered his emotions, tucked them carefully away. She had not been harmed, yet. It was his duty to protect her.
“There’s not a perfect gentleman in London from my vantage point, your ladyship,” he said, taking a step back from her. “But I advise you to stay away from the fellow until Bow Street is satisfied.”
She blinked. “Then you are investigating him.” She closed the distance, gaze intent. “Tell me why. What has he done?”
“The matter is confidential,” Jamie started, when her aunt appeared in the doorway. He was thankful that he’d insisted on keeping his cap. Now he slipped it back on, pulled it low.
“Just see that you stay away from him,” he repeated. “When we have results, you’ll hear of it.” He pushed past her and kept his face turned away as he went by her aunt. The fewer people who knew his connection to the high and mighty Townsends, the better. He didn’t want to be accused of having a vendetta against the family that had refused to help his mother or acknowledge his existence, even if that vendetta was entirely warranted in this case. He could only hope Lady Emily could be kept out of it.
Chapter 6
Infuriating fellow! Emily wanted to seize one of the Wedgwood vases on the mantel and hurl it after James Cropper’s rapidly departing body. Well, she’d said it before, and it seemed as if she must say it again. If he would not stop Lord Robert, she would.
“Who was that?” Lady Minerva asked, frowning after him. “I thought Warburton said you had a caller.”
“No one of import,” Emily assured her. “I am persuaded I can do much better without his attendance.”
“Well, certainly,” Lady Minerva said. “Though you were a bit ham-handed this morning. Half of London must know you suspect Lord Robert of skullduggery by the way you dashed about.”
Emily sighed. “You saw us.”
“I see most things.” Her aunt went to the sofa, took a seat, and patted the upholstery next to her. “Come. We should talk.”
Emily went to sit, resigned to a scolding. Though the firelight played across her aunt’s stern features, it did not warm them.
“I do not wish to marry Lord Robert Townsend,” she told her aunt. “And nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”
“So you are content to become like me,” her aunt said, leaning back against the sofa and crossing her arms over the chest of her gray evening dress, her Paisley shawl catching against the material. “Ol
d, crotchety, despised by her family.”
“You aren’t despised,” Emily started, but her aunt held up one hand.
“Yes, I am. I am called in to deal with sickness, death, and abandonment. That’s what a spinster aunt is for.”
Emily grimaced. “I’m not exactly a spinster aunt.”
“Not until your sister Helena conceives. Be thankful for that. And even then you may have more influence than you think. I imagine if you can convince your father that you wish to remain unwed, you might command a house in the country, perhaps a visit to London during the Season.”
The image was not unwelcome. A house of her own, somewhere to paint, to take long walks across the fields, to worship in the solace of a cozy country chapel like the one she’d seen recently at the village of Wenwood near the Barnsley School. And London during the Season—the art galleries, the Royal Society annual art exhibition, perhaps her own pieces hanging for all to see. She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her.
“You’re too young, you know,” her aunt said, as if determined to burst any bubble of hope. “You cannot possibly live alone at seventeen, and very likely not even after you reach your majority at twenty-one.”
This time Emily’s sigh was shorter and more forceful. “So you will have it there is no other course but marriage.”
Lady Minerva smiled, a pointed, crooked, determined smile. “Not at all, my dear. I’m saying that if you wish your quaint country cottage, you need someone to chaperon you. Promise me a home with you, permanently, and I will do all I can to convince your father this match with Lord Robert is ill conceived.”
Emily stared at her. “You fraud! You make yourself out to be simple, but you know exactly what you’re about.”
Her smile softened. “Indeed I do, my dear. I like to think I am a survivor. And I can help you survive, if you will allow it.”
Living with Lady Minerva, for the rest of her life? The idea was not as foreign as it would have been even a quarter hour before. When she considered the matter, her aunt’s history and her own were not so different—called here and there, never quite welcome, always the outsider. She put out her hand. “We are agreed. You have a home with me so long as I have one to command.”
