Art and Artifice

by Regina Scott

  Emily raised her head, begging him with her eyes to understand, to say something, to do something. Lord Robert stood smiling triumphantly, accepting the praises being thrown their way. He didn’t seem to notice as Jamie drew to her side.

  “Is this what you wanted, then?” Jamie asked, jaw tight. “I thought you invited me here to learn enough to stop him. I thought we had the same goal. Apparently I was mistaken.”

  He brushed past her, leaving the room, leaving the house, leaving her life.

  The darkness inside her spilled into her mouth, burning, suffocating. She couldn’t bear the sight of all these smiling people, couldn’t hear another word in congratulations, couldn’t breathe.

  She only found her breath again after she was sick, all over Lord Robert’s shiny black evening shoes.

  Chapter 18

  “You there! Stop this instant!”

  His feet on the pavement outside the Townsend townhouse, Jamie turned at the sound of Lady Minerva’s strident voice. Habit. His mother had always said that when your betters call, you better answer. The trouble was, at the moment, he could not agree that anyone in that house was his better.

  Still, he waited as the elderly lady stomped down the stairs to his side. Her long nose pointed accusingly at him. “How could you leave her to a monster!”

  Jamie shook his head. “You made it very plain, your ladyship, that any suit of mine would be inadvisable and unwelcome. What did you expect me to do?”

  She threw up her bony arms. “Fight! Show him for the dastard he is. Challenge him to a duel!”

  “Only gentlemen are allowed to challenge,” he told her. “And dueling is against the law.”

  “A law you uphold only when it suits you,” she complained with a snort. “Have you no love for the lady, then? Is she truly to wed that creature?”

  The idea made him ill. “You heard them. She signed the papers. She’s accepted him as husband. She could have said no at any time, and she didn’t.”

  “You, sir,” she said, “should know better than most that sometimes a lady finds it impossible to say no.”

  The reminder felt like a punch to the gut. He refused to bow to it. “Then the lady has to live with the consequences.”

  “And you are content to let it go at that?”

  The disgust in her voice echoed inside him. “What I want doesn’t matter. It’s what she wants.”

  “And you think she wants this?” She shook her gray head. “Forgive me, sir. I understood you to be well acquainted with my niece. I was under the impression you cared.”

  “And if I do?” He straightened to his full height, a good head above hers, stared down at her, daring her to contradict him. “I am nothing to her, a tool to be used, a brush that broke in her hand, fit for nothing but to be thrown away. Isn’t that how every aristocrat thinks?”

  She did not so much as flinch. “If you believe that, sir, then I pity you.”

  Jamie turned away. “Save your pity. I don’t need it. I have a job to do, and I’ll do it. Nothing more.”

  Her fingers latched onto his arm. He glanced back and was surprised to see moisture pooling in her eyes. “Please?” she murmured. “The girl deserves better.”

  Something twisted inside him. Yes, she deserved better. He’d said so from the start. But Lavinia Haversham and his mother deserved better too. Though Emily’s decision hurt, he should not allow it to change his determination to see justice done.

  He took Lady Minerva’s fingers and gently lifted them from his sleeve. “There, madam, we can agree. But if she truly doesn’t wish this match, she’ll have to be the one to make the next move.”

  She nodded. “She will. I am certain of it. And when she does, you’ll stand by her?”

  He ought to say no. He ought to walk away, before his heart broke any further. Yet, like Lady Minerva, he could not seem to leave Emily to her fate.

  “If she jumps out of this mess with Lord Robert,” he promised, “I’ll be there to catch her. Just see that she jumps quickly, before it’s too late.”

  * * *

  Jamie was nowhere to be seen when Emily left the townhouse a short time later, leaning on her father’s arm. Priscilla had agreed to ride home with the Courdebas family. Lady Minerva, who was already at the coach, made room for Emily on the rear-facing seat.

  His Grace was solicitous as he tucked the ermine lap robe about Emily. “There, now,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure tonight was simply too exciting. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  She sincerely doubted that. She would never have an opportunity to prove herself to Society. Her art would soon be a thing of the past. She was set to marry a vile villain. And, worst of all, the man she loved thought her faithless. She thought she might never feel well again.

  Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne had been just as concerned, clustering around her for only a moment before His Grace had whisked her away. Ariadne’s face had been long and mournful, and her lips had trembled as if she struggled with what to say. Priscilla had looked worse, her color gone, one arm wrapped about the lavender gauze as she hugged herself.

  Daphne enfolded Emily in her long arms and held her close, as if she were a mighty warrior and could protect Emily from any harm. For a moment, all Emily could do was stand and soak up the warmth.

  “This is a terrible injustice,” Ariadne had murmured, laying a hand on Emily’s shoulder, her touch another blanket against the chill that had overtaken Emily. “But we will prevail.”

  How, Emily could not see.

  “I hate to question you when you’re feeling poorly,” her father continued now, leaning back against the cushions as the carriage started for home. “But you mentioned that you were acquainted with Mr. Cropper. How did that come about?”

  Lady Minerva’s gaze met Emily’s, solemn. She wasn’t sure what her aunt expected her to say. She could hardly confess that she’d seen him every time she’d tried to follow Lord Robert. Nor could she tell her father she’d been dreaming of him her whole life, a man who would appreciate her art, appreciate her. A man she could trust with her heart.

  “I first met him when he came to the house a few days ago,” she said.

  Her father frowned. “He did not approach me.”

  “Very likely he knew how busy you are,” Lady Minerva put in. “And he would have had to report to me in any event, as he was investigating the theft of my pearls.”

  Now her father turned his frown to Lady Minerva. “Your pearls? I was certain Warburton told me they were found the other day, behind a cushion in the withdrawing room.”

  Lady Minerva pressed her hand against her chest. “Were they? Why, how forgetful of me!”

  The old fraud! She’d known her pearls were safe, yet she’d kept Jamie on retainer. Very likely she enjoyed the excitement of working with a Bow Street Runner. Oh, but she and her aunt were too similar! Right now, however, Emily had another matter for His Grace.

  “How do you know Mr. Cropper?” she asked her father. “You said you remembered his mother.”

  Her father sighed. “It is not a topic I would choose to discuss with you.”

  Aunt Minerva tsked. “She is already acquainted with the young man and about to marry Lord Robert. Don’t you think it time she knew the truth?”

  Still her father sat, brow knit.

  Lady Minerva raised her chin. “James Cropper is the son of the previous Lord Wakenoak,” she announced.

  Emily threw off the lap robe. Of course! Jamie was Lord Robert’s half-brother! She’d seen the resemblance from the first in that magnificent mane of hair. And no wonder he brindled every time she mentioned Robert’s name.

  “You knew Lord Wakenoak had an illegitimate child, and you never told me?” she challenged her father.

  They drove near a light then, and she could see him looking intently at her, his brown eyes dark. “There are a great many things I do not tell you, Emily Rose,” he said. “Be glad for that fact.”

  She felt herself blushing.
“Yes, well, it seems I needed to know this one.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Minerva intoned. She nudged His Grace with her foot. “Get on with it then, Emerson.”

  He sighed as if resigned to his fate. “It is not a happy tale. Wakenoak had his wilder moments, which I could not like. Jasmine Cropper was a delightful young woman, the daughter of an Irish peer and one of Lady Wakenoak’s goddaughters come to join them for the Season.” He sighed again. “It is a sad fact, Emily, that some gentlemen must have their own way, even when it hurts others.”

  Lord Robert came to mind. She’d always thought he was his father’s favorite. It seemed they had a great deal in common, even in bullying women.

  “There would have been a great scandal, of course,” Lady Minerva said, “but Miss Cropper very wisely chose to sequester herself in a quiet corner of London and add a ‘Mrs.’ to her name. I understand her family cut all ties to her.”

  Her father nodded. “When I learned James had been born, I advised Wakenoak to give him every advantage. I thought he’d at least paid for tutoring, but it appears the boy had to pull himself up by his bootstraps.”

  “He’s done rather well,” Lady Minerva pointed out. “One of the youngest to be chosen by Bow Street, several notable captures to his name. Still, hardly the life of a gentleman.”

  “I’ll speak to my steward,” her father promised. “Perhaps we can find a place for him on one of the estates.”

  An estate manager would have been no better consort for the daughter of a duke, but she supposed it hardly mattered now. Unless Jamie accused Lord Robert of some crime in the next two days, she was as good as married.

  And even if Jamie accused Lord Robert, she had no hope of regaining his good regard. He was right. She had used him, brought him to the dinner in a desperate attempt to show up Lord Robert. He would see her as no better than his father, using others for her own gain. He’d never forgive her.

  She was so despondent that she had only a vague memory of entering the townhouse and bidding her father good night. She stood quietly as Mary helped her change, dismissing the maid as quickly as possible. But she could not make herself climb into bed.

  Instead, she found her way to her easel and stood staring at the soldiers, the roses of their badges stark red and white in the candlelight. Who cared about battles from long ago when people’s hearts were breaking and dreams were shattering right here, right now? Surely there was something more important she could paint.

  She hefted the larger canvas down and replaced it with the second, smaller one Miss Alexander had sent with her. She gazed at the blank canvas for the longest time, until she began to see shades of gray and blue and yellow in the expanse of cream. But nothing grand enough, beautiful enough came to mind. She simply could not paint a bowl of fruit. She’d give up painting first!

  She was nearly ready to give up now. How was it Lady St. Gregory thought her incapable of putting herself into her battle scenes? Even Jamie had said Emily had missed the emotion. They were both wrong.

  She put herself into her paintings. The bold colors made her feel stronger. The solidity of the oils gave her a sense of control, as if the world could be just as she ordered it, given time and patience. And the battle scenes, well, they were big, powerful. In them, men were heroes, and heroes triumphed. And, in a small way, so did she. Painting anything else felt limited, insignificant.

  Vulnerable.

  She turned to her paints. Her hands shook as she mixed the oils, prepared her palette. She didn’t sketch the piece in charcoal first as was her wont. She attacked the canvas, stroking on the paint surely. If no one knew what she was made of, she’d simply have to show them.

  The painting came to life quickly. Indeed, the ease of it surprised her. Color and form blended, became real. Then love and hope and sadness mixed, slowing her hand. It was as if she painted with her own tears, her own blood.

  Memory fueled each stroke: the delicate smell of Priscilla’s perfume, the infectious sound of Ariadne’s giggle, the strong touch of Daphne’s hand. She thought of His Grace tucking the lap robe about her with care, Jamie facing down a beggar twice his size to protect her. There was warmth and bittersweet pain in remembering how many people loved her, how many people she loved.

  Even if they were no longer at her side.

  She stepped back finally and eyed the piece. Very likely it would never earn her Lady St. Gregory’s approval or a place in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. But she needed no one to tell her it was very, very good.

  She only wished she could say the same for the rest of her life.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning, Emily wanted only to escape the house. She was afraid to look at what she’d painted last night, knowing it would likely never be seen by anyone but her. She didn’t much want to be left alone with her thoughts, either. So she dressed in her riding habit and headed for the mews.

  It was still early when she rode her horse into Hyde Park. Poised on the edge of Rotten Row, Emily bent over Medallion’s head, gloved hands on her horse’s reins.

  “I need you to fly today,” she murmured into the black ear.

  Medallion shook her head, the silky mane caressing Emily’s cheek. She touched her heels to the horse’s flank and felt the muscles bunch beneath her. In a breath, they were away.

  The thoroughbred pounded down the sandy track, the beat of her hooves echoing the pounding of Emily’s heart. The air, heady with the blooms of spring, swept past her, cooling her skin, wiping clean her mind, imbuing hope, purpose.

  She had only today and tomorrow to catch Lord Robert. She had to think, plan, determine some way to expose him to all of London.

  But how?

  They reached the end of Rotten Row, with Kensington Palace looming in the background, and Emily pulled the horse up. Rubbing her hand along the glossy neck, she turned Medallion for the walk back up Hyde Park.

  And heard her name being called.

  “Emily!” Daphne shouted, waving wildly from the seat of her father’s barouche. Beside her in the open carriage sat Ariadne, with Priscilla on the opposite seat. They were all bundled in quilted pelisses, testimony to the morning chill. But the fact that none of them wore bonnets spoke of the speed at which they’d come to find her.

  As their family coachman reined in the matching black horses, Emily brought Medallion alongside.

  “We have so much to tell you!” Ariadne exclaimed.

  Emily’s groom, who had been following at a distance, rode up as well. Emily tossed him Medallion’s reins and slid to the ground, pausing to tuck the black train of her wool riding habit up over her arm. In a moment, she had dispatched the groom to return the horse to the mews and climbed into the carriage to seat herself beside Priscilla.

  “A great deal happened after you left last night,” Daphne said, leaning forward as the carriage set out once more.

  “A great deal happened before she left,” Ariadne argued. She turned to Emily. “I’m only sorry I could not reach you to tell you. James Cropper is Lord Robert’s half brother!”

  Though merely hearing his name hurt, Emily managed a smile. “I know. Father told me on the way home.”

  Ariadne’s face fell. “Oh, well, then.”

  “There is more,” Daphne said, looking first at Emily and then more pointedly at Ariadne.

  “Oh, I suppose,” Ariadne said. “But Emily quite stole my thunder.”

  “Perhaps you should start at the beginning,” Emily said.

  Ariadne sighed, her gaze going to the trees in the copse they were crossing. “Very well. As you know, I went to the retiring room to try to fix the stain on my dress.” She glanced back at Emily. “It didn’t come out, by the way. You were quite right. For all my scrubbing, all I managed to do was turn the dress pink, and I know how you feel about pink.”

  Daphne coughed.

  “I’m getting to it!” Ariadne snapped. “I am a writer, you know. I can tell a decent story.”

  When Daphne colo
red, Ariadne hurried on. “In any event, I had just stepped behind the screen to use the Necessary when who should walk in but Lady Skelcroft and Lady Baminger. That odious Lady Skelcroft was quite incensed. She was trying to decide whether to tell poor Lady Wakenoak they were dining with Lord Wakenoak’s bastard.”

  So Lord Robert’s mother hadn’t known. “I wondered why she agreed to invite him,” Emily said. “I suppose I should be glad I wasn’t the only one in ignorance.”

  “No indeed,” Ariadne assured her as the carriage passed the still, green waters of the Serpentine. “I gather Lady Baminger was just as shocked to hear about the matter. Poor Lady Wakenoak turned white when Lady Skelcroft told her after the ladies had left the gentlemen to their port and retired to the withdrawing room.”

  “But never you fear,” Daphne put in. “Lady Skelcroft got her due. I heard her telling Lady Baminger how she’d lost her ruby brooch. Her husband feared it stolen and called Bow Street. That’s how she knew Mr. Cropper.”

  Priscilla made a face and spoke for the first time. “You missed the end of that story when your mother called you to play the piano for everyone. Mr. Cropper found the brooch on the floor. Lady Skelcroft apparently only misplaced it.”

  So she’d been right about that night. Emily frowned. “Odd. That’s the same thing that happened to Acantha Dalrymple and Aunt Minerva.”

  “Well, they all love calling attention to themselves,” Daphne pointed out, “so I’m not entirely surprised.”

  As they turned to cross the grass for Hyde Park Corner, Priscilla put a hand on Emily’s arm. “I also must apologize for not speaking last night, Emily.”

  The ache in her voice pierced Emily’s pain. She turned her frown on Priscilla. “What do you mean?”

  Priscilla’s hands fluttered before her, reminding Emily of Mrs. Tate’s fretting. “I wanted to tell you to fight, to refuse to marry the fellow just because your father wishes it. But I couldn’t very well say that, could I? I’m guilty of the same sin.”