The Lady Emily Capers, Set One

by Regina Scott

  So who exactly was he?

  *

  James Cropper watched as the Duke of Emerson’s youngest daughter glanced about the room as if seeing it for the first time. He certainly wouldn’t have put quite so many magnificent pieces in one place, gilded frames dwarfing the walls, but then he wasn’t likely to be found living in a townhouse like this one any time soon.

  He wasn’t likely to meet someone of her note either. She was not in the common way. Her black hair stood all curly around her face as if it crackled with energy, and those dark eyes seemed to see right through him. He felt their power as her gaze speared back to him.

  “What do you know of art?” she challenged.

  He glanced out the open door. She couldn’t have happened upon him at a less opportune time. Things were not going as he’d expected, and he needed to speak with Lady Minerva. But though a footman dashed past the opening, Jamie caught no sight of the elderly lady.

  It seemed he would have to answer Lady Emily’s question, so he looked up at one of the battle scenes. That hawk-nosed general in the foreground was surely Wellington. He had the French forces in the crossfire, with heavy casualties on both sides. His charger rearing, he held his saber aloft to order a charge.

  “I don’t know all that much about art,” Jamie admitted. “But I’d say this artist never experienced war.”

  She stiffened. “Why? What’s wrong with the piece?”

  “Oh, the details are fine enough,” he said. “I’ve known a few lads who served under Wellington on the Peninsula. This picture matches their tales, but it doesn’t show their heart.”

  She frowned, moving closer. “What do you mean?”

  She came just under his chin, a nice handful. Oh, no, my lad, best not to even think such thoughts. He returned his focus on the painting and pointed to a fallen soldier. “Look here at this fellow. He’s gone down. Very likely he’ll never see home or family again. He knows that by morning, crows will be picking at him. That’s enough to give a man cause for thought, cause for fear. Does he look as if he’s thinking about meeting his Maker?”

  She cocked her head, and the scent of lemon drifted up from her, reminding him of his mother’s tart lemonade. “I will grant you that he doesn’t look particularly emotional. But not everyone cries in adversity, sir.”

  Something told him she’d be one who braved on without a tear. She had that militant look in her eye.

  “I suppose not,” he said. “But I always thought art was supposed to illuminate the human condition.”

  She raised her chin. “Some artists prefer to accurately depict history.”

  She must certainly admire the artist to defend the fellow so fervently. “There are books enough on history,” Jamie replied. “Why bother painting it if that’s all you want out of it?”

  “Why bother?” she sputtered. “Sir, you have no sensibilities!”

  Jamie laughed. Odd that she found him calloused when he was accused too often of being too emotional, of taking the side of the victim when it was his job to pursue the criminal.

  But a noise from the corridor caught his ear, and he saw Lady Minerva heading their way, her brother the Duke of Emerson beside her. With Lady Emily standing there, looking at Jamie with a combination of bewilderment and belligerence, now was not the time to advise her aunt and father that the man they intended for her might be one of London’s greatest villains.

  Instead, he bowed to her again. “I’ve picked a poor time to visit, I see. You’ll want to speak to your father. He’s just come home.”

  “He has?” She hurried to the door and glanced out. Her narrow face lit, with a joy and love that wiped away all the frustration he’d felt from her. For a moment, Jamie simply stood, gazing at her, amazed by the transformation.

  Such a look could make a fellow forget his task, his goals, and his very self.

  That’s when he knew he was truly in trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Something inside Emily swelled at the sight of her father walking toward her. He was the perfect duke in her mind: not too tall, with sandy hair and knowing brown eyes. Every movement in his fine blue coat said confidence and privilege and power. Oh, but the mysterious gentleman in the sitting room was in trouble now. She turned with great pleasure to tell him so, only to find that he was gone, like smoke up a chimney, leaving the door to the servant’s stair ajar. Even as she stared in surprise, her father and aunt reached her.

  “What a delightful homecoming,” he said. “Not even out yet and all set to be married.”

  Emily turned her stare on him, feeling as if the corridor had dipped beneath her feet. “What?”

  He smiled fondly. “Lord Robert has been visiting me and your aunt for the last fortnight, regaling us with his plans, and I’ve discussed the matter with his brother Lord Wakenoak. It seems Lord Robert hopes to marry immediately and sweep you off to Devonshire for a honeymoon. He’s certainly conceived a passion for you.”

  The air in the corridor seemed to be thinning, her sight dimming. No! She’d never fainted in her life. And crying would be nearly as bad. She’d cried enough when her mother died eight years ago; it hadn’t brought her mother back. Besides, she would much rather solve a problem than cry over it.

  “But I don’t wish to marry so soon, Father,” she said, forcing her words to come out calm, measured. “You promised we would host a come out ball. I believe your secretary has already issued the invitations.”

  “Then we will make it a betrothal ball,” her father, always the diplomat, said.

  “I’m certain the goldfish and finches won’t mind,” Lady Minerva assured her.

  The menagerie might not care, but Emily did. “Father, we must talk. I don’t wish to marry Lord Robert. I haven’t seen him since I was a child!”

  Her father patted her arm. “Now, then, there’s nothing to fear. He is a fine fellow of good family, exactly the sort of man your mother would have wanted for you. Once you see him again, I’m certain you’ll understand the wisdom of this match.” He turned to the butler, who had approached them and stood waiting. “Ah, Warburton, what do you have for me?”

  “An urgent missive from the Prime Minister, your Grace,” the butler intoned. “I’ve put it in your study.”

  Before Emily could say another word, her father excused himself and hurried off.

  She had hoped to ask about the stranger who had disappeared from the sitting room, and to continue her discussion with her father, but the note from the Prime Minster must have been important, for a footman brought word that her father would not be dining with them after all. She understood. Really. Here Parliament thought they had the world’s biggest madman safely locked away and what did Napoleon do but escape to cause havoc once more! She’d known it wasn’t her graduation or impending marriage that had called her father back from the Congress of Vienna. She did her duty and dined with her aunt, then retired to her room and plotted.

  She’d had simple goals for her Season: celebrate their entrance to Society with Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne, and take her place in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. Marriage and a protracted honeymoon in another county did not aid either of those goals. So, Lord Robert would have to change his plans. Whatever passion he thought he had conceived was ill-founded. He knew nothing of the woman she had become. She’d simply have to convince him, and her father, that marriage was not in their best interests.

  Before going to sleep in the feather bed, she penned several notes and dispatched them with a footman. Two went to Priscilla and Daphne and Ariadne to attend her in the morning. The other was bolder. It requested the honor of meeting with Lady St. Gregory. They had never met, but surely for once, being the daughter of a duke would work in Emily’s favor.

  The lady had yet to answer the next morning when Emily’s friends arrived. With Lady Minerva still fashionably abed, Emily was able to meet them in the withdrawing room alone. First, of course, she had to submit to the usual rituals. She admired Priscilla’s new pel
isse, agreeing that the serpentine green exactly matched the shade of her eyes. She exchanged hugs with Daphne and hid the wince when she stepped on Emily’s toe. She commiserated with Ariadne on her sniffle and assured her that it was rare to succumb to influenza so early in the spring as the beginning of April.

  Emily made sure they were comfortably seated on the camel-backed sofa and gilded blue chairs and pointed out the sweets and tea Warburton had left for their enjoyment. Then she took a seat in the harp-backed chair opposite them and folded her hands in the lap of her spruce-colored wool gown. “Father says that I must marry Lord Robert, immediately.”

  Priscilla blanched. “No, no, no! You cannot get married so soon! I cannot have the Ball without you!”

  “And we must have the Ball,” Ariadne insisted, dark blond curls trembling on either side of her round face. She always reminded Emily of a canary, busy, inquisitive, head cocked as if trying to understand every aspect. “You know all Daphne and I will have is the dinner party Mother has planned.”

  “What is His Grace thinking?” Daphne lamented. “It just isn’t done!” She threw up her hands and collapsed against the seat, but that was Daphne. Emily had once painted her as Artemis, goddess of the hunt, all rousing good cheer with her honey-colored hair and ready smile. Daphne’s mother had taken exception to the diaphanous robes and insisted that Emily paint on a high-necked bombazine gown instead. Who ever heard of Artemis riding to the hunt in bombazine?

  “I fail to see,” Priscilla said, green eyes narrowing dangerously, “how Lord Robert can arrange a wedding so quickly, unless you plan to elope to Scotland.”

  Emily shuddered. “No, thank you. But then, I had no idea Lord Robert was so determined to marry.”

  “Surely he gave you some sign,” Ariadne said, reaching for a comfit. “A lock of hair, a passionate letter.” She popped the chewy confection into her mouth as if she feared the sugar would speckle her pink muslin gown if she tarried.

  “Not a word,” Emily assured her. “We haven’t set eyes on each other since I went away to Barnsley. Apparently, His Grace and Lady Minerva had some inkling. They said Lord Robert has been visiting frequently of late.” A shame Lord Robert hadn’t thought to spend as much time with the woman he intended to marry! She would have dissuaded him from the notion.

  Priscilla rose to pace the room. Her hair was as bright as the gilt chairs, and the blue of her muslin day dress with its white lace collar was a perfect match for the blue walls.

  “Then all is not lost,” she said. “We have only to convince Lord Robert that you must wait until after the Season.”

  “We must convince Lord Robert that I am not the woman for him,” Emily corrected her, back pressed against the hard wood of her chair. “I don’t wish to marry, Pris. I thought I made that clear.”

  Ariadne and Daphne exchanged looks. “But Lord Snedley says it is the duty and privilege of all young ladies to marry,” Daphne protested. “Unless they wish to enter a nunnery or Covent Garden.”

  Emily refrained from commenting on the advice of the mysterious lord who had taken Society by storm. Lord Pompadour Snedley’s Guide to London’s Beau Monde, illustrated and annotated, had been all the rage, even at the Barnsley School. Certainly Daphne had memorized the volume in the last few days before graduation.

  “Surely we can reason with Lord Robert,” Ariadne protested. “You told us you had been betrothed for years. If your father approves, it must be a decent match. Why refuse him, sight unseen?”

  Until that moment, she’d always approved of Ariadne’s logic. Oh, she might get the odd fancy from time to time. She was an author, after all. Her mind positively brimmed with knowledge from the plays, poetry, and books she’d read. But in the face of such logic, how was Emily to admit that it wasn’t logic that moved her. Her! The one who prided herself on never succumbing to emotions!

  As if Priscilla sensed her weakening, she came to sit near Emily on one of the delicate little chairs. “Perhaps this isn’t so horrid,” she said. “Some people might even say you’re fortunate. With his family connections, Lord Robert is quite a catch.”

  “Perhaps,” Emily acknowledged. “But I don’t know why I must catch him. I’m not a tremendous heiress; I bring only a small estate from my mother to a marriage. And if it’s a duke’s consequence he craves, there must be other dukes with marriageable daughters.”

  “Not as many as you might think,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “I’m having trouble enough finding one who is eligible.”

  Daphne leaned across the tea table, blue eyes widening. “Oh, Priscilla, have you set your sights on a duke, then?”

  By the way Priscilla’s head lifted, Emily knew it for the truth. “They are generally old and crotchety, Pris,” she reminded her, “except for His Grace, course.”

  “You are referring to the royal dukes, the brothers of the Prince,” Priscilla said with a sniff. “Of course I would not settle for one of those. I rather thought I’d seek introduction to the Duke of Rottenford. He’s said to be rather dashing.”

  “He’s the youngest of the bachelor dukes and has a fortune of ten thousand pounds per annum and a seat just outside London,” Ariadne said. “I read it in DeBrett’s Peerage.”

  “You see?” Priscilla said with a sigh. “He’s perfect. And if you took the trouble to look into your engagement further, Emily, you might find that it is every bit as good. It will put you in the best position. You can flirt, and no one can get peeved because they’ll all know you’re taken.”

  “And you can eat whatever you like,” Ariadne added, “without fear that you won’t fit in your presentation gown.” She reached for another comfit, and Daphne nudged her hand away.

  “Besides,” Priscilla continued, “everyone will want to congratulate you. As your dear friends, we’d be quite popular.”

  That was the one problem with Priscilla. She tended to think of her own needs first.

  “But Priscilla,” Daphne protested, “how could we enjoy ourselves knowing we’d consigned Lady Emily to a monster?”

  “Forgetting etiquette does not make Lord Robert a monster,” Priscilla began when there was a cough at the door. Warburton met their gazes with a smile.

  “Forgive the interruption, ladies, but the monster, that is Lord Robert, has come calling, and I wasn’t sure you wished to receive him.” He eyed the girls pointedly.

  Emily raised her chin. “I’d very much like a word with him, Warburton. Please show him up. Is Lady Minerva receiving yet?”

  “Alas, no. I believe she has only just called for her breakfast tray.”

  Emily nodded. “Then we’ll receive him ourselves.”

  “But do give us a few moments first, Mr. Warburton,” Priscilla said sweetly.

  Emily thanked him and turned to ask Priscilla why they needed time. But one look at her friends, and she knew.

  They were all primping.

  She supposed she should do the same: fluffing up the curls on either side of her face like Priscilla or biting her lips to make them appear rosier like Ariadne. She wasn’t sure why Daphne was flapping her arms up and down like a goose, but she guessed it was on the sophisticated advice of Lord Snedley.

  Still, Emily saw no need to posture for Lord Robert. He’d insisted on marriage before he had any idea of whether they’d even suit! She was ready to level him immediately, tell him that under no circumstances would she marry him. But when he paused in the doorway a few moments later, words failed her.

  He looked like one of the heroes in her paintings -- tall and powerful. Against all odds, he had the same glorious mane of hair as her mysterious caller of last night, though it was artfully styled around a face that had surely graced a statue of a Greek god. His eyes were a deep clear blue that warmed with his smile. His dove gray coat was so fitted it showed nary a crease as he bowed.

  Priscilla eyed him, Ariadne paled, and Daphne stared open-mouthed, despite all of Lord Snedley’s pointed advice.

  “Heaven is missing a few angels
today, I see,” he said as he straightened.

  “I have read that line a dozen times before,” Ariadne said in a disappointed whisper to Emily. “He could do better.”

  He evidently thought he’d done well, for his smile was confident as he strolled into the room. He went to Priscilla first, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

  She smiled. “Such a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Lady Emily has told us so much about you.”

  And not a whit of it good. What was Pris thinking, smiling so fetchingly that dimples danced at the corners of her mouth? Lord Robert blinked as if he’d forgotten his own name, then some other emotion flashed across his face. Regret? Of course! He didn’t know which one of the girls was Emily. So much for having conceived a passion for her.

  She rose. “You can stop the pleasantries. I’m not going to marry you.”

  He raised his brows, as if he had not expected her to attack and now must marshal his thoughts. Priscilla rolled her eyes, clearly begging heaven for help. Daphne nodded her support so vigorously she was in danger of hitting her sister with her swinging curls.

  “But of course you are, dear Lady Emily,” he said, moving to her side. The scent of cloves washed over her, and she had to stop herself from inhaling like a child in a kitchen with freshly baked buns. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. The warm pressure sent a shiver up her arm. Oh, why did he have to be such a paragon!

  “I am your most devoted servant, I assure you,” he murmured, releasing her. “As soon as I heard you had arrived in London, I came straight away to pay my respects.”

  As it was now nearly noon, she doubted he’d been in any particular hurry. Still, if he could be polite, then so could she. “These are my dear friends, Miss Tate, Miss Courdebas, and Miss Ariadne Courdebas.” Very likely she’d said their names so quickly he wasn’t at all sure who was who, but Lord Robert obligingly nodded to them all.