by Regina Scott
Lady Minerva eyed the marchioness. The marchioness eyed Minerva. Then her aunt leaned forward and kissed the lady on her wrinkled cheek.
“Winifred, dearest,” Lady Minerva chortled.
“Minerva, my dumpling,” Lady Skelcroft warbled. “So very glad you could make it!”
Emily couldn’t help glancing at Priscilla. As always her friend was the picture of elegance and beauty, but the twitching of her lips told Emily she was trying valiantly not to laugh.
Indeed, Lady Skelcroft was not at all what Emily had expected. She was so thin candlelight might have glowed through her if it weren’t for the deep shade of her amethyst-colored satin gown. Her iron gray hair was equally thin, for all she’d attempted to style it in ringlets about her narrow face. And she moved gingerly, hunched over a gold-headed ebony cane, as if the weight of the diamonds at her neck had been her undoing.
“I cannot imagine Lord Robert dallying with her,” Emily told Priscilla as soon as Lady Minerva had left them to their own devices, having done her chaperon duty, Emily supposed, by informing them as to the location of the ladies’ retiring room before looking for a likely crony with whom to gossip.
“I cannot imagine anyone dallying with her,” Priscilla replied from where they had positioned themselves along the far wall of the ballroom to watch for their quarry. She smoothed down the sky blue satin of her ball gown. Her Aunt Sylvia might have gone mad, but the woman had had excellent taste. The gown was tucked under Priscilla’s generous bosom to fall in graceful folds to a band of ruching picked out with silver thread. Silver-threaded lace edged the neck and cap sleeves as well, and a silver band held back Priscilla’s gleaming hair. Emily felt as if her matte satin gown of a warm brown faded against the gilded wallpaper in comparison.
Which was all to the good. She wanted to be nothing more than a potted palm tonight, unnoticed, unremarked upon. She had more important matters in mind.
“Do you see him?” she hissed to Priscilla, scanning the room. For all her eccentricities, the Marchioness of Skelcroft seemed to have amassed a great number of friends, for the long room was already crowded. Under the light of a massive chandelier dripping with crystal, couples strolled about the parquet floor. Dowagers reclined on sofas along the edges. Voices rose and fell like waves on the sea as they all awaited the first song from the string quartet gathered discreetly in one corner.
“Not yet,” Priscilla promised, head turning this way and that, the light gleaming on her golden curls. Suddenly she froze. “Oh, my, Emily. Look there, by the refreshment table.”
Emily looked, and looked again. Standing to one side of the bowl of delicate pink punch was a tall footman with broad shoulders and a glorious mane of hair. His head was high, his gaze far too sharp for a fellow tending to the food, and his smile was positively wicked.
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “What is Mr. Cropper doing here?”
“Working as a footman,” Priscilla pointed out as if that were not obvious. “I’ve heard Bow Street Runners take the odd job on the side to make ends meet.”
She’d never considered how much income a Runner might amass. Besides their salaries there must be rewards for certain captures, gifts from grateful clients for a job well done. Would it be enough for one to marry? Support a family?
Why did she care?
“Emily!” Priscilla gripped her arm and nodded toward the door. “There he is.”
Indeed, Lord Robert had arrived. His green velvet coat and gold-shot waistcoat perfectly complemented his neatly combed hair; the white knee breeches and stockings outlined his manly legs. Ladies around the room glanced his way, fluttered their fans. Lady Skelcroft positively simpered as he took her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.
“Ew,” Priscilla said, then hastily turned the comment into a cough.
Emily seized Priscilla’s gloved hand and drew her back behind a painted screen that decorated one corner. “Quickly! He mustn’t see us!”
Priscilla sighed, pulling up her long kid leather glove from where Emily’s grip had wrinkled it. “Don’t you start! I’ve had quite enough of Daphne dragging me into holes.” Still, she peered out from behind the screen on one side even as Emily peered out on the other.
He strolled into the room, greeted this person and that, but he never ventured farther than ten feet from the doorway. As the musicians began tuning up, gentlemen looked for partners and ladies preened. Lord Robert slipped back onto the landing.
Priscilla glanced at Emily. “I suppose you’ll insist that we follow him rather than dance.”
“What else?” Emily pushed her out of their hiding place, and they hurried after Lord Robert.
The corridor was empty save for a footman taking away a stray evening cloak. She knew the doors opposite them led to the ladies’ and gentlemen’s retiring rooms. She certainly wasn’t about to follow Lord Robert in there!
“He can’t have left,” Emily complained, glancing up the stairs to their right.
“I’ve heard of gentlemen who spend no more than ten minutes at any ball of an evening,” Priscilla replied, glancing down the stairs to their left. “He does seem that sort of shallow fellow, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Emily.”
“No forgiveness needed,” Emily replied, venturing toward the stairs. “I quite agree.” She turned to face her friend. “You take the lower floor. I’ll take the upper. We’ll meet back here in no more than a quarter hour or go find the other. Agreed?”
Priscilla nodded and lifted her skirts to descend the stairs. Emily set about climbing.
If the Skelcroft home was like any of the country houses Emily had visited, the next floor should consist of the family living space such as a withdrawing room or a library and perhaps a bedchamber or two. The stairs led her to a U-shaped corridor around the open stairwell. Even in the soft glow of the candles in brass sconces along the papered walls, she could see easily across the space to the opposite side. She appeared to be alone.
But she had six doors to investigate. Much as when she’d approached what she thought had been James Cropper in the park, her breath came light and quick as she tiptoed up to the first. She pressed her ear against the panel, the wood smooth against her cheek, but heard nothing. Did that mean the room was empty or the door sufficiently solid to mask any sounds? Only one way to find out. She pressed down on the latch and eased open the door.
The room was unlit, and the shutters must have been closed against the moonlight, for she could see little. She could, however, hear something, a creak, a moan. Gooseflesh pimpled her arms.
“Quickly, my sweet,” a woman whispered. “Before we are caught.”
“I would brave anything for you, my heart,” a man murmured back.
Emily scrambled back out the door and carefully closed it, face flaming.
“Not so easy, is it?” James Cropper said, leaning against the wall beside her with his arms crossed over his chest.
* * *
She glared at him. Not that Jamie could blame her. She had to be tired of him showing up whenever she drew too close to Lord Robert’s secret. But keeping between her and Townsend was the only way he knew to protect her and still attempt to catch the fellow in the act.
“I never claimed finding the truth was easy,” she murmured as if mindful that others might be listening. “In my experience, people go a long way to hide it.”
He lowered his arms as he pushed off from the wall. “My experience as well. Which is why I’m here. I’m fairly certain we have the same goal, once again.”
She raised her chin as if she intended to disagree, then gave it up and shrugged. “If you’re attempting to discover what Lord Robert is doing up here, then yes, we have the same goal.”
She could not dissemble. Jamie chuckled. “I take it Lord Robert wasn’t in there.”
She shuddered as if she hadn’t liked what she found. “No, but the room is occupied.”
“Interesting.” Jamie eyed her high color, the way one hand kept rubbing at
her other elbow below her dun-colored evening gloves. “Anything Bow Street should investigate?”
“Absolutely not.” She dropped her hand to stalk away from him, down the corridor toward the next door. He fell into step beside her.
“Perhaps I should be investigating you,” he said, keeping his tone light. “The belle of the ball must have some other reason for escaping to the upper floors besides following a fellow around.”
“I’m hardly the belle of the ball,” she replied. She paused before the next door. Jamie could almost feel her indecision. He’d seen Lord Robert leave the ballroom, but he hadn’t been able to escape his post before Lady Emily and Miss Tate had hurried after the villain. The Marchioness of Skelcroft might scruple to deal with him knowing his family history, but she had been only too happy for him to pretend the part of a footman if that helped him fulfill his commission from her husband. He didn’t know where Lord Robert had gone, but if he was in one of these rooms, Jamie might just be able to prove his culpability at last.
And if Lady Emily saw the truth about Lord Robert Townsend, she’d have her reason to stop the betrothal.
That shouldn’t matter. Her betrothal was none of his affair. For all he knew, Lord Robert might become violent if he was caught. Jamie ought to send Lady Emily back downstairs to safety, tell her to find her chaperon and behave for once. But some part of him wanted to see Lord Robert exposed for all he was before the very woman he now claimed to love.
He put his hand on her shoulder, drew her gaze to his. “Listen. I know we have been at odds with each other, but let’s call a truce for tonight. We find Lord Robert together. Agreed?”
She narrowed her eyes at him as if she suspected some trick. “Very well,” she said at last.
“Then allow me,” he said and threw open the door.
Lady Emily joined him in peering into the space. Though no candles were lit, someone had opened one of the shutters, and moonlight trickled into the room. He could make out a bed, dressing table, and wardrobe, all neat and tidy. Very likely it was a seldom used guest room. He started to close the door.
Lady Emily put her hand on his, a gentle touch for all its urgency. “Wait. Shouldn’t we look under the bed, in the wardrobe?”
“He won’t be interested in this room,” Jamie told her. Still, he waited until she drew back her hand before closing the door. The memory of those supple fingers stayed with him as they turned the corner of the corridor.
“Why wouldn’t he be interested?” Emily asked, moving along beside him, her smoky brown skirts whispering against the carpet. “Why is he up here?”
Jamie glanced in the open door to the withdrawing room. Plenty of valuables there, from the porcelain figures in a glass case along the wall to the gold-plated clock on the mantel of the marble fireplace. None of them would have appealed to Townsend. “Why do you think he’s up here?” he asked, continuing on to peer into the next room.
“I have no clue!” She must have realized her voice had risen, for she hastily lowered it as she looked into the open door of what was obviously a breakfast room, with a cozy set of table and chairs. “Is he planning a dalliance?”
She didn’t sound the least bit upset over the possibility. Jamie couldn’t help smiling. “Perhaps. I would be if I was betrothed to you.”
He thought she might blush, perhaps tease him back. Instead, she stopped and put her hands on her hips.
“I thought more of you, Mr. Cropper,” she said, “than to turn sarcasm on a lady.”
She started to push past him, and Jamie caught her arm. “Sarcasm? I meant every word I said.”
She glared at him, dark eyes stormy. “Unhand me this instant, ruffian.”
Jamie dropped his hold and bowed. “Of course, your ladyship. Anything for the duke’s daughter.” He straightened to find her rubbing her arm where he’d held her.
“Stop that,” she said, though she dropped her gaze as if to soften the words. “I cannot abide people who bow and scrape.”
“That makes two of us.” Jamie puffed out a sigh, gathering in his temper. “Forgive me, Lady Emily. I simply don’t like hearing you talk of yourself as if you aren’t valued. If Lord Robert or anyone else for that matter has put such thoughts in your head, tell them to jump in the Thames.”
She raised her chin, but he thought a smile was tugging at the corners of her lips. “I shall do better than that, sir. Now, are you going to open the next door or shall I?”
He bowed again. “I await your good pleasure.”
She stalked past him and opened the door.
It was a woman’s bedchamber, with rosebuds painted on the creamy silk decorating the walls and gilded edges on the slender white furniture. Candles glowed in sconces and lamps, and the covers had already been turned down as if ready for the occupant.
Emily met his gaze, her eyes wide. “This cannot be Lady Skelcroft’s room.”
Very likely it was. Jamie couldn’t imagine the bulky Marquess of Skelcroft bedding down on the dainty furniture. But what interested him more was the brooch that lay gleaming on the carpet.
He swooped down and snatched it up. Gold filigree setting, a ruby in the center surrounded by pearls. It couldn’t be.
“What are you doing?” Emily whispered, joining him.
Jamie slipped the brooch into the pocket of his borrowed jacket. “Completing a task.” He studied the room again. “Where would you hide in here?”
Emily glanced around as well, then pointed toward the far wall. “In the dressing room.”
Now Jamie noticed a faint vein that cracked the wallpaper, masking the door. He whirled and put both hands on Emily’s shoulders. “Stay here. I’ll come back for you.”
She pushed off his hands. “You said we were partners!”
“Not if it puts you in danger,” he promised, then he turned to run for the dressing room door and yanked it open.
“Bow Street!” he declared, glancing in every direction. “Surrender now!”
No one moved. Indeed, there didn’t seem to be space for anyone to so much as breathe. The room was crowded with drawers and hooks and clothing a gentleman should pretend not to know about. But the door to the corridor was ajar.
Jamie ran for it and skidded out onto the carpet. He just caught sight of a shadow going down the stairs and started after it.
Emily’s hand on his arm forced him to stop.
“What?” he demanded. “Did you see him somewhere else?”
“If I had, I would certainly not tell you,” she informed him, gaze smoldering. “You are no gentleman, Mr. Cropper. Our truce is off. I’ll discover Lord Robert’s secret myself if it’s the last thing I do.” She swept past him for the stairs before Jamie could tell her that was exactly what he feared.
Chapter 9
Priscilla met Emily on the landing outside the ballroom, her arm firmly grasped by Lady Minerva. The chaperon’s foot was tapping against the thick carpet as she looked down her long nose at Emily.
“I cannot leave you two alone for a moment,” she complained. “Did you at least find what you were looking for?”
“No,” Emily said with a warning look to Priscilla.
Just then James Cropper came down the stairs. His head was bowed, and he passed them as if he were no more than any other servant intent on his duty. But as he rounded Lady Minerva he was so bold as to wink at Emily over her chaperon’s shoulder. Honestly, the audacity of the man!
Lady Minerva seemed to find Emily and Priscilla the more audacious. She was sufficiently put out with them that she insisted on calling for the coach. Emily longed to tell Priscilla what she had seen upstairs, but she didn’t want to confess what had happened between her and the dashing Bow Street Runner in front of her aunt. Besides, he’d snatched something off the floor in Lady Skelcroft’s bedchamber, something that had gleamed before he tucked it away. She didn’t like the thought that he might be the thief she had named him when she’d first met him.
Yet she could think of another
explanation. A theory was beginning to form in her mind about Lord Robert. The only way to test it was to air it before a critical audience, and she could not ask for a more critical one than Lady Minerva.
“Warburton informed us this afternoon that Mr. Cropper has been investigating the theft of your pearls,” she said to her aunt as the coach set off across Mayfair.
For a moment, Lady Minerva merely stared at her across the coach. Then she raised her chin. “Bow Street was called, but I am not pleased with Mr. Cropper’s skills. A good sennight has passed, and he has produced no results.”
Emily nudged Priscilla, who was seated beside her, with her foot. “He seems to suspect Lord Robert.”
Priscilla stiffened, but her aunt snorted. “Lord Robert? If that is the best you can do by way of a story to feed your father, gel, you’ll be married in days.”
“Not necessarily,” Emily insisted. “Think on it. When we followed him to Bond Street, we saw him enter an establishment where pearls might be sold.”
“She’s right,” Priscilla put in with an encouraging nod.
Lady Minerva shook her head. “You are resorting to fancy, I tell you. He could have been selling some trinket he dislikes.”
“I doubt it,” Emily said, assurance growing. “You and His Grace both said Lord Robert had been lingering about the house. He might well have noticed your pearls. There must have been some bustle to prepare the place for me, to get you packed to come to Barnsley. In all the leave-taking, how simple to slip away with them. And I am beginning to think he had need of them. His father may have gambled away the family fortune.”
Lady Minerva frowned as if she wasn’t sure whether to give the story credence. But Priscilla clasped her hands together before her evening cloak.
