La Petite Four

by Regina Scott

  Ariadne giggled through her tears. “There is that. Oh, Emily, was there ever a bigger fool?”

  Emily linked her arm with Ariadne’s and led her toward the door to the ladies’ retiring room. “Nonsense. Anyone could spill. I’m certain there must be some remedy. What would Lord Snedley advise?”

  “Something terribly useless, no doubt. But don’t fret over me. You should go back. This evening is in your honor, after all. I’ll be along shortly. Just don’t let Priscilla latch onto all the Eligibles.”

  Emily wanted to protest. She had no wish to return to that room, to be gaped at and talked about, to pretend that she was enjoying the prospect of marrying Lord Robert. But Ariadne had a point, and Emily knew she shouldn’t stay away from the festivities for long.

  So she turned, squared her shoulders, and told herself she could do this. She had to do this. Too much was at stake.

  Then she saw him.

  Jamie stood in the corridor for a moment before turning and murmuring something to the footman just behind, as if he preferred to enter the room unannounced. Emily wasn’t sure why. He certainly looked the part of a gentleman: black coat, black breaches buckled at his knees, a green-striped waistcoat, and a simply tied but absolutely spotless cravat. His hands were encased in white kid gloves, and his evening shoes were every bit as shiny as Lord Robert’s.

  Seeing her there, he touched two fingers to his forehead. “Mr. James Cropper, reporting as requested, your ladyship.”

  Hope rushed through her. Here was an ally, a helper Lord Robert and his friends could not intimidate. Yet as she walked toward him, she noticed that his smile was not quite as bright as she remembered, as if he was unsure of his welcome, unsure of her. She saw questions were written in those gray eyes, questions she wasn’t sure how to answer.

  Lady Skelcroft and Lady Baminger exited the withdrawing room just then and stopped when they saw Jamie standing there. Lady Baminger merely frowned, but Lady Skelcroft’s mouth opened and closed as her face paled. Then she hurried past Emily for the retiring room.

  “Do you know her?” Emily could not help asking Jamie.

  He opened his mouth to answer, but Lord Robert strolled out of the withdrawing room, every bit as if he had been following the ladies. He too jerked to a stop at the sight of Jamie, his handsome face flushing red.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  19

  The Rules of Engagement

  Jamie stared at Lord Robert, and Lord Robert stared back. This was what Emily had planned, but she felt as stretched and taut as one of her canvases. What if they came to blows? Lord Robert might lose his handsome face to Jamie’s knuckles, but she was more concerned for Jamie. Striking an aristocrat was a hanging offense for a commoner.

  She dashed up to them and placed herself squarely between them. “I invited Mr. Cropper, Lord Robert. It seemed as if the two of you had much to discuss.”

  Lord Robert grabbed Emily’s arm and linked it through his own. “Mr. Cropper,” he said, spitting out the name as if he’d eaten a bug, “and I have nothing to say to each other. He should have refused your invitation.”

  “I dislike refusing a lady,” Jamie grit out with equal venom.

  Beyond them, Emily saw Ariadne scamper out of the ladies’ retiring room. Her face was flushed, and the ribbon around her waist was askew. Meeting Emily’s gaze, she started forward, only to jerk to a stop when she saw Mr. Cropper and Lord Robert.

  “The lady is unaware of the implications,” Lord Robert sneered to Jamie. “You, however, are not. If you had any notion of good breeding, you would have refused.”

  Had Emily truly put Jamie in such a difficult position? Obviously he knew how to get along in Good Society. Why would good breeding demand that he stay away?

  And what was wrong with Ariadne? Her friend stood down the corridor, mouthing words at her. It looked a bit like “He’s a dastard.”

  Yes, Lord Robert certainly was! Emily just wished she could prove it.

  “You’d definitely be more familiar with good breeding than I am,” Jamie said. “You have all the trappings—fine house, fine clothes, paste jewels.”

  Emily tugged her arm from Lord Robert‘s grip. He was obviously too focused on Jamie to notice. “Starting rumors, are you, Cropper?” he demanded.

  “Or investigating one.”

  Investigating paste jewels? Why? The girls had already established that Lord Robert wasn’t a jewel thief, much to Emily’s dismay.

  Ariadne was still trying to get her attention. Now she seemed to be saying, “He’s his mother.”

  But that made even less sense! “What?” Emily mouthed back.

  Lord Robert leaned closer to Jamie, eyes narrowing. “I’ll not have you questioning my guests. This is my home, and you cannot accuse me without a writ from the magistrate.”

  Accuse him? Of what? Had her suspicions been correct after all?

  “Now why would I accuse you, my lord?” Jamie asked, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You being such an upstanding gentleman and all.”

  Lord Robert drew himself up. “It is because I am a gentleman, Mr. Cropper, that I don’t have the footman throw you out on your ear. You are a guest in my home, and I know how to treat guests, just like my father.”

  Jamie blanched.

  Emily grabbed her skirts with both hands to keep from reaching out to him. This wasn’t about stolen jewels or smuggled virgins. The injury was deep, on both sides. The pain radiated like heat from a wildfire. She wanted to soothe the wound, but she had no idea what had caused it.

  “Does this have anything to do with Lavinia Haversham?” she ventured.

  Lord Robert jerked away from her. “Enough! Do you see the damage you’ve done by insinuating yourself into my fiancée’s life, Cropper? If anything happens to her, I’ll blame you!”

  “Emily?”

  Relief fell like cool rain at the sound of His Grace’s voice. Here was someone who knew how to navigate difficult situations. That calm determination had settled disputes between squabbling monarchs and warring nations. She let go of her skirts and grabbed the arm of her father’s coat, pulling him into the corridor.

  “Father,” she said with a smile. “May I present to you Mr. James Cropper, an acquaintance of Lord Robert’s and mine?”

  For the barest of moments, her father hesitated, staring at Jamie, and Emily found herself staring at her father, her arms falling to her sides. Why didn’t he move? Her father was never at a loss for words, never discomposed. Could His Grace know Lord Robert’s secret?

  Then His Grace held out his hand with a smile. “Mr. Cropper, a pleasure to meet you, sir. Please give my regards to your mother and assure her that she is remembered kindly.”

  Now Lord Robert was staring as well, sweat beading on his brow, but Jamie’s smile reappeared.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, shaking hands. “Mother speaks highly of you as well.”

  Had Emily somehow drifted out to sea? She’d lost all landmarks, had no northern star to guide her. His Grace knew James Cropper’s mother?

  But how? Emily herself hadn’t even seen her father in months!

  “Forgive me for interrupting your conversation,” His Grace continued smoothly, as if he did not notice her standing there with her mouth open, “but I believe Lord Wakenoak is awaiting us in the library.”

  The library. The settlement papers. Something as thick as oil paint squirmed in her stomach. She could not make herself move as her father offered his arm.

  He frowned. “Emily? Did you hear me?”

  She did, to her everlasting regret. The dread in her stomach solidified into a rock. How she wished she could turn away— scrape Lord Robert off her life as she scraped away an unwanted blob of paint.

  There had to be something she could do!

  “Yes, Father,” she said, placing her arm on his. “I heard you.”

  Her father smiled, then nodded farewell to Mr. Cropper. She could feel Jamie’s gaze on
her as she passed. What would she see if she dared to meet his gaze? Sympathy? Pity?

  She couldn’t look.

  Lord Robert fell into step behind them as they made their way down the corridor, like an executioner carrying the ax to the block.

  She tightened her grip on her father’s arm, forcing him to pause. “Must we do this, Father?” she whispered. “I . . . I’m not feeling well.”

  He patted her hand, gaze warm and soft. “There, now. These are only bridal jitters. It is my duty not to let you fall prey to them and pass up so excellent a match.”

  Her face felt like a mask, stiff and hot. “But the ball.”

  “I assure you, Emily,” Lord Robert said, coming up beside them, his gaze just as warm, “there will be others.”

  No, there wouldn’t. Not like this one. Who but Priscilla and the prince would have goldfish?

  “There, you see?” His Grace said, squeezing her hand. “You have no reason for concern. I am persuaded that Lord Robert will make you a wonderful husband. And I only want the best for you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Emily managed a nod. She knew His Grace had her interests at heart. She simply had to find something to convince him her interests lay elsewhere. But she was out of ideas.

  As they started forward again, the weight in her stomach grew heavier, spreading through her legs down to her feet. By the time they reached the library at the end of the corridor, she felt as though she’d walked ten miles. It seemed to take another ten to reach the desk before the fire, where Lord Wakenoak stood with a short man wearing spectacles, a solicitor.

  “I’ve already signed,” Lord Robert’s brother announced as they gathered around him. “As the head of the family, I agree to the allowance being granted to my brother.”

  Allowance. Emily supposed she should care how much income Lord Robert brought to the marriage. She’d never thought to ask. His Grace did not seem at all concerned as he stepped forward to sign.

  “And there’s my agreement,” he said, handing the quill back to the solicitor. “A fine dowry for my lovely daughter, with plenty of pin money to keep her in the finest of gowns.”

  As if she cared about gowns. She’d prefer to spend the money on paints. Perhaps she could muddle along without the Royal Society’s acceptance. She might hire a tutor, someone with more experience. Perhaps she could find the time to study between managing a household and producing an heir . . .

  Her stomach shoved the weight up against her chest. An heir. Oh, Lord. She could not imagine being intimate with Lord Robert. She had a hard time thinking about being intimate with anyone. The rock squeezed against her lungs, making it almost impossible to gasp in a breath.

  The solicitor dipped the feather pen in the crystal ink bottle and lifted the quill. Emily watched as the black drops fell from the sharp white point. The man held it out to her. Her fingers felt too heavy to take it.

  “And now you, Lady Emily,” he prompted as if she could not guess why he’d offered her a pen. “Your signature indicates your willingness to give the estate you inherited from your mother to Lord Robert. As your husband, he will control all your worldly goods while he lives.”

  He would control everything she was and everything she did. How could she agree to that?! Emily didn’t want the pen, didn’t want to sign, and certainly didn’t want to give Lord Robert her mother’s estate or her heart. She wanted to shout at all of them to go away and leave her alone. She reached for her locket and realized she’d left it at home.

  She managed to squeeze an ounce of air into her lungs. They had logic and family alignments on their side. All she had were feelings-frail, unreliable feelings-to offer in protest. Feelings would do her no good this day.

  She reached out, gripped the quill pen, bent, and signed her name. It was probably for the last time. Very soon she’d be Lady Emily Townsend. She had lost her future and herself.

  Lord Robert took the pen from her with a smile that seemed far too big and bright for the dark room and finished his signature with a flourish.

  “Well done,” his brother said. “This was Father’s dream, to unite our families. Let us share the good news with our guests.”

  His Grace moved with Lord Wakenoak toward the door, leaving the solicitor to sand the documents and pack them away. Lord Robert took Emily’s arm.

  “Feeling better now?” he asked as he led her toward the door.

  Emily took a deep breath at last. “No, not really. I wasn’t ready for this, Robert.”

  “Oh, you seem ready enough,” he said cheerfully as they started down the corridor once more. “You’ve been quite busy, following me around, listening to lies, spreading your own.”

  The corridor seemed to tilt around her. She could not have heard him right. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your apology is a start. I expect better behavior from you from here on out. You will keep your mouth shut, around my friends and yours. You will not cavort with trash like James Cropper. That includes a tart like Priscilla Tate and nonentities like the Courdebas sisters.”

  The pressure was crawling up her throat, threatening to choke her. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she tried.

  “Not in the slightest,” he said, pausing in the doorway to the withdrawing room, where the guests stood with champagne in their hands. “As your husband, I expect you to do exactly as I say. It will go poorly for you if you don’t. And I will hear no more nonsense about you painting either. I thought you would take the hint when I brought Lady St. Gregory to visit. Having a wife who fancies herself an artist is entirely too embarrassing, particularly when she’s of no real talent.”

  He strolled into the room, and Emily stumbled after him, the cheers of congratulations ringing in her ears.

  “Wish us happy, everyone!” Lord Robert called. “Lady Emily will be my bride by this Thursday.”

  Lady Emily would be dead by Wednesday. She could not live with this pain, this bleak future. The room was darkening. Her senses coalesced into a burning pain in her throat. She’d just signed her life over to a monster.

  “To the happy couple,” Mr. Cunningham called, raising his glass. “May their union be long and prosperous.”

  Silk and satin rustled as everyone’s arms were raised in toast.

  Everyone’s but Jamie’s.

  Emily’s gaze met Jamie’s, and the sounds around her faded, the people vanished, until Jamie was everything. He stood there so stiffly, as if he were in pain. Gone was his wicked smile. His remarkably fine gray eyes were dark, accusatory.

  He didn’t understand how she could agree to marry a scoundrel like Lord Robert. She didn’t understand either, especially when she realized she could never love Lord Robert.

  She loved Jamie.

  Jamie challenged her, but only when she was being less than her best. He protected her, even when she would have preferred to do so herself. He cherished her, consistently putting her needs before his own. He made it clear he valued her thoughts and opinions. He saw Emily for herself, good and bad.

  And he liked her for who she was, even if she was the daughter of a duke.

  She wanted to call out to him, fly to his side, take his hand, and pull him from the room. As if he could read her mind, Jamie set down his glass without taking a sip and started toward her.

  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 Emily’s 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. Good-bye, Lady Emily.”

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

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

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

  20

  Shattered Dreams

  His Grace was solicitous as he tucked the ermine lap robe around Emily in the coach after they’d abruptly left the Townsends. “There, now. I’m sure it was simply too much excitement this evening. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Emily 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 was long and mournful, and her lips trembled as if she struggled with what to say. Priscilla looked worse, her color gone, one arm wrapped around the lavender gauze as she hugged herself. Daphne took Emily in her arms and held her close, as if trying to be strong for them both. For a moment, all Emily could do was stand and soak up the warmth.

  “This is a terrible injustice,” Ariadne murmured, laying a hand on Emily’s shoulder. “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 blue cushions as the carriage started for home. “But you mentioned that you were acquainted with Mr. Cropper. How did you meet him?”

  Where to start? She’d been seeing him around London for the last week and at Barnsley before that. Of course, had she realized it, 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.

  “He came to the house to see you a few days ago,” she said. “Warburton said he had a letter of introduction.”

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

  Because he’d known her father already favored Lord Robert. She frowned. But why would that make a difference? What had Lord Robert to do with her father and Jamie?