The Lady Emily Capers, Set One

by Regina Scott

  “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.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” she said, excitement dancing in her voice. “It means we have something against Lord Robert. Now all we have to do is get him to confess, and we’ll have saved the Ball!”

  Emily could only wish it was that simple. If she was right, she didn’t think Lord Robert would spill his secret so easily. As Lady Minerva shook her head, Priscilla suggested any number of stratagems, such as telling him how much Emily admired jewel thieves or pretending to drop a diamond and seeing how he responded. None set well with Emily.

  But the note that was waiting for her at home was worse.

  Warburton brought it to her when she was sitting by the fire in her dressing gown, trying to think of the appropriate way to bring up the topic of pearls with Lord Robert without appearing confrontational. She was ever too good at speaking her mind. Yet surely she shouldn’t simply blurt out her suspicions. He’d either laugh them off or make up a clever story, and she’d have lost her chance to gain any proof.

  She almost didn’t hear the scratch at the door, forcing Warburton to tap before she called out permission to enter. When he held out the silver platter with the card on top, she merely frowned at it, then at him.

  “From Lady St. Gregory, I believe,” her butler said. “In answer to your note, perhaps?”

  Emily felt as if a rock had suddenly dropped into her stomach. She picked up the missive with fingers that trembled. The answer inside could spell her future, or her doom.

  It was more of the latter. “Thank you for writing,” the lady had said in precise lines of black ink. “I am entirely too busy with the Season to think of enrolling any more members to the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts at this time. Perhaps in the autumn. If we have openings, I shall write to you.”

  Emily carefully folded the note.

  “Do you wish to respond, your ladyship?” Warburton asked, voice kind.

  How was she to respond? With anger at being so summarily dismissed, her work not even deemed worthy of viewing? With a stinging rebuke that the doorkeeper to the prestigious society could not be bothered with opening the door? With a threat that her father might have something to say about the matter?

  No, never that.

  “No, Warburton,” she said. “No reply. If my father or my aunt asks after me, would you tell them I’ve retired for the evening?”

  He bowed. “Certainly, your ladyship. Sleep well.”

  Sleep failed her that night. As she lay in the four-poster bed, staring up at the painting on the underside of the canopy (an inferior piece; she could do better), thoughts kept circling her. Could Lord Robert really have stolen her aunt’s pearls or was she merely seeing treachery where she longed to find it? Did James Cropper suspect Lord Robert as well? Was that why he was following her betrothed? Or was James Cropper truly a thief, masking his work under the cover of his position at Bow Street? Was there some other connection between the Bow Street Runner and Lord Robert?

  She was glad when all her friends called the next morning. She and Priscilla shared their adventures of the night before with Ariadne and Daphne. Ariadne, of course, immediately praised Emily’s theory about Lord Robert being a jewel thief, though Daphne insisted that Lord Snedley would not have approved. Both, however, agreed that her best approach was to force a confession from Lord Robert. Now if she could only determine how!

  She did not feel the least prepared when he arrived that afternoon to escort her to see the Marbles. With the two of them being affianced, and the outing to be entirely out of doors where anyone might see, Lady Minerva allowed her to go with him alone with no more than a stern look of warning to behave. Emily had dressed in her favorite gown, a gray-striped taffeta walking dress with a matching jacket. It was cool and crisp, and she needed all the encouragement she could get, particularly as Lord Robert looked rather impressive in a blue coat of superfine wool and cream-colored trousers tucked into gleaming boots.

  “Lady Emily,” he said, bowing over her hand in the marble-tiled entry hall. “You look radiant, as always.”

  If he thought so, then she’d made the right choice in her attire, for she rather thought her sleepless night had left her haggard. She smiled at him in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion. “It is very good of you to escort me,” she said as the footman held the red-lacquered door open for them.

  “Not at all,” Lord Robert assured her, tucking her hand in his elbow and leading her down the stone stairs. “I regret that previous engagements have made it difficult to dance attendance on you as you so richly deserve.”

  Much more of that and she would likely spoil everything by gagging. “I did not ask you to sit in my pocket, sir,” she said as they approached the carriage. It was a fine phaeton, high and proud and a determined shade of green.

  “And may I not sit so closely?” he asked, offering a hand to help her climb up onto the driver’s bench. “We are to be married, after all.”

  Not if she had anything to say about the matter.

  He must have taken her silence for agreement, for he proceeded to sit quite closely indeed, his thigh pressed against hers, as he took up the reins and his groom hopped up behind. Emily edged as far over as she could as the carriage set off.

  “There truly is no reason to be shy,” he insisted with a smile over at her. “I won’t bite.”

  “I might,” she replied.

  He laughed. Oh, but he was a confident one. She wanted to do something to wipe that smile from his face, prove to him that she did not intend to fall prey to his charm.

  “I suppose you find my decision to wed a bit sudden,” he said, glancing her way again. When Emily did not argue, he continued. “Allow me to assure you that I will be a considerate husband.”

  “And I will make a wretched wife,” Emily replied, then closed her eyes in consternation at the surprised look on his face. Acting in her usual manner wasn’t going to help her in this case. She needed to think like Priscilla. What gambit would her friend have used to bring the conversation around toward pearls?

  “Forgive me, Lord Robert,” she said, opening her eyes and somehow managing not to choke on the words. “I’m finding it difficult to adjust to all the excitement of a London Season. I envy your confidence.”

  He positively preened, sitting taller on the seat as they passed the fine townhouses of Mayfair. “We were born to Society, you and I. It will come to you.”

  He took it for gr
anted she would wish it so. She decided not to argue with him, settling back in her seat as if she had the utmost faith in his ability to maneuver through London traffic.

  “The carriage certainly rolls along well,” she ventured, running a hand along the shiny brass rail that encircled the driver’s bench. “Was it a recent purchase?”

  Lord Robert was tipping his top hat to a group of ladies. “Yes, just this spring,” he said, setting his hat at a jaunty angle. “Father left me the funds to purchase it, God rest his soul.”

  The mention of his poor father was supposed to encourage her to turn the conversation toward his circumstances, she supposed. That’s what Lord Robert thought. “It’s an odd bequest,” she said. “Don’t most fathers leave money for schooling, a commission in the military, perhaps a small estate?”

  “You would have to have known my father well,” he said, with a smile that did not quite meet his lovely eyes. “He was one to enjoy the finer things in life. You should have seen some of his carriages, now all my brother’s of course.” He launched into such a detailed discussion of the merits of different types of coaches and the fine horses that pulled them that she felt her eyes crossing. It was only when he was exclaiming what a jewel the tilbury was that she found another opening.

  “Speaking of jewels,” she said, “I understand you’re rather fond of pearls.”

  His brows went up so high they disappeared under the curled brim of his top hat. “Pearls, Lady Emily?” For a moment, she thought she’d caught him. Then his mouth tilted up at one corner. “Is this your way of hinting at a betrothal present?”

  Oh, but he was slippery, and oh, she wished her cheeks would cease heating! “Not in the slightest,” she assured him, deciding to be bold. “I was informed that my aunt’s pearls were recently taken. Perhaps you’ve heard the tale as well.”

  His smile faded, and as he gazed out over the horses she thought his hand tightened on the reins. “What sad times we live in that even a duke is prey to theft. I only wish I knew how to make it up to your dear aunt. Charming woman.”

  This time Emily did choke.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, voice warm with concern.

  When she waved him off, he reached out to pat her hand with his free one, his gloved fingers dwarfing hers. “Now, now, have no concern. The only thing about you that will ever be stolen, my dear Lady Emily, is your heart, by me.”

  The fact that he thought she might actually wish him to steal her heart left her utterly speechless. She could only hope to do better when they arrived at Burlington House on Picadilly, where the Marbles were stored. As he escorted her through the wrought-iron public gates and into the yard, she tried to decide if she should attempt Priscilla’s stratagems or simply ask Lord Robert outright.

  And then she saw the Marbles, and she could say nothing for quite some time.

  She’d read how the sculptures had arrived in England, what with Lord Elgin making off with them from their home in Greece claiming to wish to protect them. The panels of creamy marble had once ranged along the walls of the Parthenon in far off Athens, celebrating victories and festivals. Other statues and friezes had been brought to join them, so that everywhere she looked were horses and charioteers, gods and goddesses.

  But as the marble sculptures had stood ranged around the coal shed in the rear yard of the palatial home, the damp weather had taken its toll. Moss grew on fair cheeks. Soot darkened proud manes. Yet still, the lines were sleek, supple, stirring. The cool stone whispered of heroic battles, of pride and strength and courage. Standing beside them, she felt small. Surely she could create something this profound, this moving.

  Surely she was meant to be an artist.

  It was not until they were on their way back to the phaeton that she remembered she’d had another reason for this trip. She’d tried to be clever, she’d tried to be subtle, she’d tried to be bold. Perhaps she should just be herself.

  “Why did you steal my aunt’s pearls?” she asked.

  Lord Robert pulled up short. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My aunt,” she pressed, refusing to be daunted, “Lady Minerva. You stole her pearls.”

  His arm tensed under her hand. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

  With him regarding her so fixedly, she began to think she’d dreamed it. “It makes a great deal of sense,” she protested. “You have been loitering around our townhouse, and I saw you enter the shop of a jeweler who’s been known to accept consignment.”

  He frowned. “What were you doing in that part of London?”

  She was not about to tell him. “It does not signify. What were you doing there if not selling the pearls?”

  “Mother had some baubles she hoped to dispose of. The least I could do was spare her the trouble.”

  Plausible, but she felt as if some color were missing from the picture he was painting, some shape that would illuminate all if only she could discover it. “Then you have no financial troubles.”

  He snorted. “Hardly. But by all means ask your father if you doubt me. His agents have been going over the marriage settlements. They know to the last penny what I bring to the marriage.” He leaned closer, the scent of cloves wafting over her. “And I find it deeply troubling that you’d consider me a cad, Lady Emily.”

  Oh, why did he always succeed in making her the villain? “But I hear you are a cad,” she replied doggedly. “Will you also deny that you dallied with a merchant’s daughter?”

  She thought for a moment he would deny it. She could almost see the thoughts churning behind those deep blue eyes. He straightened. “I suppose it was too much to ask that the gossip not reach your tender ears,” he said sadly. “I thought myself foolishly in love.” He brought her hand to his lips. “That was, of course, before I ever met you again.”

  He knew more good lines than Ariadne! There had to be some way she could catch him. She knew in her heart he was lying. Goodness, even Mr. Cropper thought him a criminal!

  Her eyes narrowed. “Speaking of meeting, I ran into an acquaintance of yours the other day.”

  “Oh?” Lord Robert replied, releasing her hand.

  Was that concern she heard in his voice? “Mr. James Cropper.”

  He froze. “Cropper? Cropper approached you?”

  Not exactly. “He came to see Father about some business.”

  “He spoke to your father?” She thought he was afraid, he turned so pale. What had she stumbled onto?

  “No,” she allowed, careful to keep the eagerness from her voice, “but that doesn’t mean he won’t the next time he calls.”

  A muscle was working in his jaw. “Is he the one who told you about the merchant’s daughter? About the pearls?”

  Emily frowned. “No. I merely heard gossip. Why does it matter who told me?”

  He waved his free hand, face relaxing. “It doesn’t, I suppose. I merely dislike seeing my good name blackened. Make no mistake, Emily. Mr. Cropper is no gentleman, for all he likes to pretend otherwise.”

  “Strong words for a Bow Street Runner,” Emily countered. “They may not be gentlemen, but they are highly respected.”

  “Most of them are highly respected,” Lord Robert corrected her. “Some have corrupted their office. Do not trust him.”

  “I would be only too happy to comply, my lord,” she said, watching him, “if you’d give me good reason.”

  His lips tightened a moment, as if he refused to give her anything. “My request should be reason enough. I forbid you to have anything further to do with the fellow.”

  He truly knew nothing about her if he thought that would work. “We must talk about this habit you have of forbidding me. It will not serve you well if we marry.”

  “If we marry?” He raised a brow. “Has nothing I’ve done convinced you that I am besotted?”

  “If you are so pleased to be marrying me,” she challenged, “so willing to please me in return, then why insist that I forego my own ball?”

  He smiled, a
s if she’d given him a reprieve. “Is that what this is all about? I thought we’d settled that.”

  “We have.” Despite herself, her chin was rising and with it her temper. “I will be at the ball. Nothing you can say will dissuade me. You do not rule me, sir.”

  He stiffened, and color flushed up his face. One hand jerked, and she pulled back before thinking. Surely he wouldn’t dare strike her!

  As if her thoughts had shown on her face, he hastily erected a smile and continued toward the waiting carriage. “Certainly I do not rule you, my dear. But if the ball prevents you from marrying me, I’ll simply have to offer you something better, won’t I?”

  Emily cocked her head. “What could possibly be better than the magnificent ball Priscilla has planned?”

  Lord Robert smiled at her. It was more genuine, but it lacked his usual charm. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Chapter Ten

  “You, Mr. Cropper,” said Lady Minerva, aristocratic nose in the air, “are discharged.”

  Jamie kept his smile pleasant as he stood in the Southwell sitting room, surrounded by more scarlet and gilding than he was convinced had ever graced St. James’s palace. Though his family had never had a place as fine as this, his mother had taught him the social niceties.

  “Withdrawing room for family, Jamie,” she’d say. “Sitting room for strangers, the back stairs for servants.”

  He’d sworn never to fall in the last category, yet here he stood, as calm and unruffled as the butler Mr. Warburton on the far wall, while a slip of a woman scolded him for his best work.

  “It’s your right to let me go, your ladyship,” he said, keeping his gaze over the top of her graying head where she sat on the tasseled sofa. “But the magistrates are keenly interested in the rash of recent thefts, and more than one victim has sworn out a complaint, so I am honor-bound to pursue the case.”

  She shook one long finger at him, other hand bunching in her blue wool skirts. “Honor-bound or vengeance-bound? You forget that I knew your mother, young man.”

  Something tightened inside him, and he dropped his gaze to hers. “Your memory is very convenient, if I may say so, your ladyship.”