La Petite Four

by Regina Scott

  Suddenly, he darted into an alley. Was he at last involving himself in scandal? Emily glanced back to make sure the carriage was following, then crept to the corner and peered around it.

  A large hand reached out and grabbed her cloak. She barely managed a gasp before she was tugged into the darkness.

  17

  To Dally in a Dark Alley

  Smells assailed Emily, rancid, cloying, and something brushed past her skirts with a cry. She wanted to cry out herself, but she couldn’t seem to find her voice.

  “What are you doing?” Jamie demanded.

  She nearly fainted in relief as she realized who held her. “I might ask you the same question,” she countered as he released her.

  “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble, though you don’t make it easy.” He straightened, and she realized he had been the hunched figure she’d followed.

  “You knew I was following Lord Robert?” she asked. “How?”

  “Because I was following him,” he said. In the dim light, she could see him shake his head. The space did not seem so terrifying now, with him beside her.

  “I spotted your friends on St. James’s Street this morning,” he explained, “peering behind their hands, hiding in doorways. I saw them run to the carriage and caught a glimpse of you inside. I’m amazed Lord Robert didn’t catch on. Didn’t you learn anything last time? It’s not safe for you out alone like this.”

  With a rattle of tack and the clatter of horses’ hooves, Priscilla’s carriage drew up opposite the entrance to the alley.

  “All right there, your ladyship?” Mr. Wells called, looking as though he meant to leap off the box and come to her rescue.

  “Fine, Mr. Wells,” Emily called back. She waved a hand to keep him on the carriage, then lifted her head sweetly to Jamie. “You were saying?”

  “If I meant to do you harm, you’d have been dead before he got here.”

  The air left her lungs in a rush. “Oh!”

  He put a hand on her elbow as if to steady her. “Now do you see the danger?”

  “Lord Robert doesn’t want to kill me,” she pointed out, though the night seemed colder again. “He wants to marry me.”

  “So would a great many other fine gentlemen, if you’d give them the chance.”

  She couldn’t help the grin that was forming. “Thank you.”

  Goodness, was he blushing? It seemed to her that his skin had darkened in the twilight.

  “My point was,” he said, “that you don’t need a blackguard like Lord Robert Townsend. A lady like you could do better.”

  “Lady Emily?” Now Ariadne called. “If he is in league with slavers, nod once.”

  Emily threw up her hands and turned. “I said I’m fine. It isn’t Lord Robert; it’s a friend. Give me a moment.”

  She could hear the amusement in his voice as she turned to him. “Slavers?”

  “Pay her no heed. Suffice it to say that I would like to prove that Lord Robert is an insufferable brute as much as you apparently do.”

  “I always knew you were smart,” he said, voice now tinged with admiration. “But I can’t let you risk yourself like this.”

  “My dear Mr. Cropper,” she said, “do you have a choice?”

  He sighed. “I could tell His Grace.”

  He could. If he could catch him. Still, she didn’t want to chance it. “I wish you wouldn’t worry my father. He has enough on his mind.” She fluttered her lashes as she’d seen Priscilla do, but the light was fading more quickly every minute, and she doubted he could see her. In fact, he was rapidly becoming a shadow in the night.

  “Very well,” he said, “but you’ll have to promise me you won’t follow Lord Robert like this again.”

  “I can’t make that promise. I told you. I must learn his secret.”

  “You can’t just cry off? Tell your father you don’t fancy the fellow after all?”

  “My father thinks the world of Lord Robert. My only hope is to find some evidence of wrongdoing so I can expose Lord Robert before Priscilla’s ball.”

  “A ball?” She could hear the frown in his voice.

  “Yes. Lord Robert has forbidden me to attend it.”

  He shook his head. “You’re risking your reputation, maybe even your life, for a ball?”

  She should have sent him packing, told him it was none of his affair, but she couldn’t. She needed him to understand. But how could she explain to a gentleman what a come-out ball truly meant for a young lady? All boys seemed to care about were horses and carriages!

  “Are you fond of horses, Mr. Cropper?” she tried.

  He cocked his head as if surprised by the change in subject. “As much as the next fellow, I suppose. Though I saw one at Tattersalls last week that was the finest little filly any man might want. I wager she’d win a race or two.”

  Horses it was then. “My father also owns several racehorses,” she told him. “I’ve seen their foals in the fields. They start off small, with spindly legs that barely hold them up. Trainers work with them, encourage them. And then, one day, they set foot on the track and they fly. And nothing, nothing in the world can catch them. That’s a come-out ball, Mr. Cropper. This is our time to fly.”

  He was silent for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “And Lord Robert, he doesn’t want you to fly?”

  She shook her head. “He and my father both think it best if I simply marry and get on with my life.”

  “Funny how those who love us most only want to protect us, even from our own dreams. My mother is like that. She doesn’t like my intended path in life. Not gentlemanly enough. It’s as if she’d prefer to see me wobbling about your field rather than running in any kind of race where I might get hurt.”

  He sounded as if he knew how she felt, as if he’d faced the same obstacles. Emily sighed. “Is that it, do you think? They simply don’t want to see us disappointed?”

  “In your case, only you can say. I’m right sorry to defend Lord Robert, believe me. I just wish I knew what he was up to.”

  Emily frowned. “Why?”

  He stiffened as if she’d caught him doing something wrong. “Why, I’m just a curious sort of fellow, that’s all.”

  His tone was once more casual, but she could not believe that only curiosity motivated him. “Come now, sir. I’ve told you why my investigation is so important to me. Why are you going out of your way to follow Lord Robert?”

  “I regret that has to be my secret for yet a while, your ladyship.” He sounded sincerely saddened by that fact.

  “Perhaps I can help you,” Emily said, an idea forming. “We’re having an engagement dinner tomorrow night. Why don’t you join us? At the very least, you could ask a few questions of those who know him best.”

  “At the Townsends? I doubt I’d be welcome.”

  Very likely not. Lord Robert had lashed out the moment she’d mentioned Jamie’s name. But if she brought the two of them together, perhaps they all might learn a few secrets.

  She put a hand on his arm. “On the contrary, Mr. Cropper. You will be most welcome. I’ll ask Lady Wakenoak to add your name to the guest list, and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night.”

  18

  Dining with the Enemy

  As she prepared for the dinner party the next night, Emily felt as tense as an overwound clock ready to spring in all directions at once. True, Jamie would be there, but she had no assurance that he would do any better at bringing Lord Robert’s secret to light. At the moment, she had nothing to hand His Grace, just unconnected circumstances.

  And time was running out.

  She’d attended services with His Grace at St. George’s Hanover Square that morning and spent a few moments praying for insight. She’d also attempted to reason with His Grace again as they walked home. He was thoughtful, as he usually was, listening intently while she shared the horrors of Lady St. Gregory’s recent visit. He was a diplomat after all. Encouraged by his comments, she’d even tried telling him a
bout racehorses and balls. But in the end, he was firm.

  “You’ve given me no logical reason to refuse Lord Robert’s request,” he said. “You do not need this ball to become a lady. You were born a lady. And you do not need to join the Royal Society to paint. I’m certain Lord Robert will be delighted to have an easel set up for you somewhere.”

  Given how kind Lord Robert had been to bring Lady St. Gregory to visit, he likely would. But His Grace simply did not understand. She would not feel that her life had started if she did not attend Priscilla’s ball. She would go from being the Duke of Emerson’s daughter to being Lord Robert Townsend’s wife, a faceless, graceless creature with no standing of her own. Was there no time in which she might be simply Lady Emily Southwell?

  She was glad Priscilla was coming with her and His Grace tonight. Mr. Tate was busy settling his sister’s affairs, and Mrs. Tate was overset with the megrims, meaning that she was too nervous to attend an event where she feared censure. Emily only wished she had that excuse to stay away.

  Anyone else, she was sure, would be delighted with the event. The Townsends had done everything to make the night memorable. Emily, Priscilla, and His Grace were greeted at the door by a tall footman in a white powdered wig and blue-and-gold livery, who took their wraps and escorted them up the sweeping staircase to the elegant withdrawing room. Already a dozen people waited among the perfectly matched chairs, all done in blue velvet with gold trim. Grecian columns decorated the doors and window wells and a double row flanked the massive marble fireplace. Ariadne and Daphne, standing next to it in white silk gowns, looked as if they had just left the temple. Even Lady Rollings, standing with her husband to the side where she could keep an eye on things, looked pleased with them.

  Of course, Emily and Priscilla were not allowed to go straight to Daphne and Ariadne’s side. Instead, a lady in a fashionable rose gown and silver turban rushed forward to take His Grace’s hand. “Emerson, Lady Emily,” she gushed, “how very good to see you again.”

  Lady Wakenoak was much as Emily remembered her: round-faced, heavy-bosomed, soft-voiced, the sort of perfumed lady she’d seen staring out of old portraits all over England. The new Lord Wakenoak, Robert’s brother, she would have preferred to forget. He was tall and heavy and dour-faced, as if this evening could not end quickly enough for him.

  At least they had that in common.

  His Grace introduced Priscilla, and then Lord Robert’s mother led them around the room to meet everyone else. Emily had long ago learned to make a game of it; it was the only way to remember all the names and titles.

  Countess Baminger had a big behind. Lady Eglantine had a nose like an elephant. The Marquess of Skelcroft was as skinny as a skeleton with hands nearly as cold; Emily felt them through her gloves.

  She did not think it any better excuse for the Marchioness of Skelcroft to have looked Lord Robert’s way. The woman was quite snippy to Emily, and Emily could not imagine what Lord Robert saw in her either. Up close, it was easy to notice that Lady Skelcroft was years older than he was, and, by the way she kept touching her long black curls, hopelessly vain.

  “What were you thinking?” Priscilla demanded of Emily when they at last joined Ariadne and Daphne. “You look as if you’re in mourning!”

  “I feel as if I’m in mourning,” Emily replied, glancing down at the somber gray gown she’d chosen. At least the matte satin had silver embroidery all along the modest neck and cap sleeves, and her long gloves and slippers were of the same material.

  “I think she looks perfect,” Ariadne said. “The despondent heroine, still struggling for her freedom.”

  Priscilla shook her head. Of course, no one would find her less than perfect. Only the other members of La Petite Four would recognize that gown. Emily was certain it was the one her aunt Sylvia had had made for Priscilla before Easter, a lovely lavender confection of floaty silk gauze and a daringly low neckline. More than one gentleman had raised his quizzing glass as if to get a better look at her as she had passed.

  “So?” Daphne prodded. “Tell us! How are we to best Lord Robert?”

  “Indeed,” Ariadne agreed, accepting a crystal glass of rosy liquid from a footman. She took a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Ratafia. Why is this flowery stuff so popular? I am highly tempted to try the sherry, for research purposes, of course.”

  Daphne glanced at their frowning mother and shook her head. “Mother’s watching.”

  Ariadne sighed. “When is Mother not watching? She has a thousand rules, and I’ve heard each one at least twice!” She turned to Emily. “When do you expect Mr. Cropper?”

  Emily’s stomach tightened. “Any moment. Lady Wakenoak very graciously agreed to invite him, even though asking her so late was a terrible breach in etiquette.”

  “Lord Snedley would be appalled,” Daphne agreed. “But sometimes drastic measures are needed.”

  “And Mr. Cropper may not be drastic enough,” Priscilla said, foot tapping. “I doubt you will fend Lord Robert off so easily, Emily. He seems determined to make certain London knows he is marrying you. Everyone here is well connected in Society. They will be merciless if you jilt him for the ball.”

  Now Emily’s throat tightened as well, quite as if someone had set a noose about her neck and squeezed. Before she could answer, however, the footman appeared in the doorway.

  “Lord Robert Townsend, Lord Benjamin Quincy, and the Honorable Mr. Horatio Cunningham,” he announced.

  Emily could hear the intake of breath. Really, Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne had no control around the gentlemen. Yet, even knowing Lord Robert was likely a scoundrel, she could not take her eyes off him and his friends as they made their way around the room.

  The three were like young gods strolling about: tall, broad-shouldered, and long-limbed, all dressed in dark coats and white satin knee breeches. One of Lord Robert’s friends had hair as golden as Priscilla’s, that curled lazily over his brow. The other had hair as black as ebony, short-cropped, and as dramatic as his angular features.

  Hercules, Apollo, and Hades. Only La Petite Four knew Lord Robert very likely deserved the title of Lord of the Underworld more than his dark-haired friend. Even Lady Rollings looked impressed when he bowed over her hand. He had a smile for every kind word, a self-deprecating jest for every bit of praise.

  “Did you see that?” Priscilla whispered. “Lady Skelcroft simpered at Lord Robert. She is clearly still enamored of him.”

  “Perhaps,” Emily allowed, “though I doubt I could hold down my ratafia if she simpered at me.”

  Beside her, she felt Ariadne begin to shake. Glancing at her friend, Emily saw that Ariadne’s gaze had dropped to the toes of her white satin evening slippers, and her skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent.

  “Ariadne?” she asked with a frown. “What is it?”

  “Shush!” Ariadne begged. “Here they come. Oh, I never know what to say to gentlemen!”

  “It’s only Lord Robert’s friends, silly,” Daphne said, taking a step closer, as if to comfort her. “They’re very likely no better than he is.”

  “Nonsense,” Ariadne said heatedly, raising her gaze long enough to glare at her sister. “Just because Lord Robert is horrid, it need not follow that he must have horrid friends. They might have been blinded by his charm, just like poor Lavinia Haversham.”

  There was no more time for encouragement, for the gentlemen were upon them. Lord Robert took Emily’s free hand and clasped it in both of his.

  “Forgive me for not rushing to your side, my darling,” he begged. “Duty, you know.”

  Emily kept her look cool as she retrieved her hand. “Pray allow me to do mine, then. You remember my dear friends Miss Priscilla Tate, Misses Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas.”

  They all dipped curtsies, and Emily was only thankful that Ariadne did not wobble. She still looked as if she might faint as Lord Robert’s friends gazed at her.

  “Ladies,” Lord Robert said with a nod. “How wonderful you could
join us tonight. I must make my friends known to you. Viscount Quincy and Mr. Cunningham pride themselves on knowing every beautiful young lady in London.”

  There he went calling them beautiful again. Truly, he used the word at the least provocation. Still, Ariadne swayed, and Daphne swallowed as if to keep herself from drooling.

  “Charmed,” Lord Quincy drawled, making him sound anything but. Perhaps he deserved the title of Hades after all.

  “Enchanted,” Mr. Cunningham said with a gamin grin. “And may I say you look lovely tonight, Miss Courdebas and Miss Courdebas. There is nothing like a lady gowned in purest white.”

  “I told you so,” Daphne hissed with a swift elbow in Ariadne’s side.

  That was all it took. Ariadne’s hands were shaking so much that the bump broke her hold on the glass’s stem. She stared in obvious horror as the goblet tumbled to the Oriental carpet, splashing her rosy beverage all down the front of her gown.

  “Or red, it seems,” Viscount Quincy drawled.

  Ariadne’s face was scarlet. “Excuse me, please,” she muttered before fleeing the room.

  Emily did not wait to see what Lord Robert or his friends would do and hurried after Ariadne. Priscilla might consider the matter before deciding that the company of three handsome gentlemen was much to be preferred, even if one was an unconscionable scoundrel. Daphne would no doubt be too busy trying to remember Lord Snedley’s advice for removing stains from silk. Ariadne needed help now.

  Emily caught up with her in the corridor just outside the withdrawing room. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Ariadne sniffled, the candlelight from the golden sconce on the wall casting delicate shadows on her tearstained face. “Oh, I shall survive.”

  “At least you won’t have to wear that dress again,” Emily pointed out. “Knowing how you feel about white, I imagine that will be a relief.”