The Lady Emily Capers, Set One

by Regina Scott

  Very little. Had she been anyone else, he might have dragged her off to Bow Street on charges of obstructing justice, public endangerment. As it was, he could not see her cooling her heels in the jail. Nor did he wish her to tell his superior how he’d found her. He sighed. “I could tell His Grace.”

  He waited for her to denounce him as a bully and a babblemouth. Him, a Bow Street Runner, resorting to carrying tales!

  Instead, she sighed as well. “I wish you wouldn’t worry my father. He has enough on his mind.”

  She sounded sincerely concerned. “Very well,” he said, “but you’ll have to promise me you won’t follow Lord Robert again.”

  “I can’t make that promise,” she said, chin rising. “I told you. I must learn his secret.”

  Again he could only question her motivation. He’d feared Lord Robert had hurt her, but she didn’t seem to fear the fellow. If anything, her betrothed annoyed her beyond reason. Of course, he’d always thought she was clever.

  “You can’t just cry off?” he offered. “Tell your family you don’t fancy the fellow after all?”

  She snorted. “My father thinks the world of Lord Robert. And my mother wanted this match.”

  Her voice was laced with emotion. He knew her mother was gone, but it seemed Lady Emily was determined to honor her memory, even if it cost her.

  “Your mother couldn’t have known the man Lord Robert would become,” he reasoned. “Or the woman you would become. What might have looked like a good match years ago could have displeased her now.”

  She cocked her head. “Do you think so?” Hope clung to each syllable. Then she sighed. “I wish I could ask her. As it is, my only hope is to find some evidence of wrongdoing so I can expose Lord Robert before the ball.”

  Jamie frowned. “A ball?”

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

  He stared at her, a slender shadow beside him. He could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re risking your reputation, maybe even your life, for a ball? Are you mad?”

  *

  Gentlemen did not speak to ladies that way. Priscilla would have tossed her head, told him it was none of his affair, threatened him with being forever in her bad graces, but Emily found she could not be so stern. Anyone else looking at her actions would probably have wondered the same thing. At the moment, she was beginning to think she ran a little mad.

  “How can I make you understand?” she asked. “It’s not the ball, though that is important. It’s my life, my future, my hopes and dreams. For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to be an artist. The things I see, the things I feel, they come out through the brush, much better than I can express them in any other way.”

  He was quiet a moment, as if choosing his words with care. “And Lord Robert doesn’t value your art?”

  She couldn’t help the sigh. “No one values my art. But that could all change if I could just be admitted to the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts! I have a chance to exhibit a painting at the ball, to prove to the patroness, Lady St. Gregory, that I truly am an artist. And Lord Robert insists that we marry and leave London days before!”

  She felt the change in him, the shift of weight from one foot to the other. He leaned closer, and she caught the scent of sandalwood. “Lord Robert is rushing this marriage so he can leave London?”

  She hadn’t thought of it that way. “He says he wants to marry quickly to honor his late father’s wishes. Do you see some other reason for the hurry?”

  He leaned back. “Do you?”

  Did she? The puzzle was starting to come together, the picture growing clearer even in the darkness of the rank alley.

  “Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “Lord Robert might have reason to run if he was a jewel thief and felt a certain Bow Street Runner with one hand on his coattails.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Interesting theory, your ladyship. But have you any proof?”

  “If either of us had proof,” she countered, “I doubt we’d be standing here now.”

  She counted off the seconds, waiting for him to discredit the idea, to call her mad once more. Behind her, the horses muttered in the traces, and she heard Mr. Wells murmuring to them that they’d soon be in their beds.

  “He’s covered his trail well, I’ll give him that,” he said at last. “There has to be some way to force his hand.”

  She knew the same longing. Every moment that passed the likelihood of their marriage increased. She’d followed him, spied on him, attempted to pry his secrets from his very lips. A shame she didn’t have the knowledge of a Bow Street Runner. Surely Jamie could force a confession, if only he could get close enough.

  Emily felt a smile forming along with an idea. “Perhaps I can help you,” she said. “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.”

  He was so still he might have been carved from the marble Lady St. Gregory favored. “At the Townsend house?” he mused. “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.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You lack all sense of finesse,” Lady Minerva complained when Priscilla’s coachman had dropped Emily at the townhouse and headed for home. “You are very fortunate your father is out again, or you would be in for a scolding.”

  The two of them were safely ensconced on chairs in Emily’s bedchamber, a pot of tea on the table between them.

  “I rather thought that’s what you were doing now,” Emily replied, calming lifting her steaming cup.

  Lady Minerva sniffed. “If you consider this a scold, you have led a very sheltered life. Now, what did you learn about Lord Robert?”

  Emily sighed. “Precious little. However, I hope to change that on Sunday.” She took a sip of her tea before continuing, unsure of her aunt’s reaction. “I invited James Cropper to join us.”

  Lady Minerva gasped. She sputtered. She set down her tea cup and waved a hand before her face as if trying to push air into her lungs. Then she leaned forward and met Emily’s gaze. “Have you gone mad?”

  Emily raised her chin. “It is celebration of my impending marriage, is it not? Surely I’m allowed to invite a few friends.”

  “Friends, certainly, but we both know Mr. Cropper is no friend.” Her aunt busied herself with retrieving her teacup as if sure of Emily’s agreement. When Emily said nothing, Lady Minerva’s head slowly rose.

  “Are you not quick to disabuse me. I say James Cropper cannot possibly be your friend.”

  Emily set down her own cup and was surprised to hear it crack against the saucer. “And I say you are wrong. He has done me nothing but kindnesses.”

  Lady Minerva shook her head. “No, no, no, gel. It simply isn’t done. You cannot acquire a passion for the fellow. Your father would never condone it.”

  Of course she knew that. The daughter of a duke could never marry a Bow Street Runner. But on hearing it said aloud, something inside her rebelled. It seemed she could not choose her husband, her friends, or even her pastimes. Something was very wrong with the world.

  “James Cropper is coming to the party,” Emily said, leaning against the back of the chair and crossing her arms over the chest of her satin dressing gown. “The dinner is my last chance to convince Father to let me cry off, and Mr. Cropper is my best hope for discovering Lord Robert’s secret.”

  Lady Minerva shook her head as she picked up her cup again. “The good Lord may have something to say about that. You wait and see.”

  *

  Sunday morning Jamie attended services at St. George’s-in-the-East as he usually did. He watched his
mother’s lips move silently through the prayers, listened to her voice as she sang the psalms. She was still a handsome woman, dressed in a fine serpentine gown she’d made herself in between commissions from the shop where she worked as a seamstress. The gentlemen of the parish were always quick to open doors, tip their hats when she passed. Here in Ratcliffe, she’d managed to avoid the scandals of her past. And here he was about to stir them up again.

  Yet how could he sit quietly and do nothing? Despite what the magistrate thought, his dedication to this case wasn’t entirely personal. Lord Robert was guilty of a terrible crime, and he deserved to be punished for it just as his victims deserved justice. All he could hope was that the truth would out.

  “What would you do if the Townsends acknowledged me?” he asked his mother as he walked her home past the narrow little houses of the parish.

  Her smile was sad. “Ah, my sweet lad, still dreaming? They don’t want to remember, especially now that his lordship has gone. No one knew the truth but him and me, the staff, and a few of his friends. They’ve all kept silent over the years. No one would believe me now.”

  She stopped at the door of the women’s rooming house where she lived and laid a hand on his cheek. “Leave it be, Jamie. You’ve done well for yourself, learning to read and write, finding a respectable position. You have no need for them, nor any in the aristocracy.”

  “Sure-n yer right, mam,” he murmured with a smile, and she dropped her hand to rap his knuckles as she used to do when we was a child.

  “Speak properly, if you please,” she said, scold softened by her smile. “You learned that from me if nothing else.”

  He seized her hand. “I learned a great deal from you, madam, determination, dignity. The least was how to speak like the gentleman I will never be. Whatever happens, know that I hold you in the highest regard.”

  Her smile faded. “Jamie? Has something happened?”

  He kissed her knuckles. “Nothing that need concern you. I promise.”

  He was still wondering how to keep that promise as he returned to his rooming house off the Strand. Should he refuse to go tonight? Could he actually learn anything from meeting Lord Robert in his own home? Or was he merely torturing himself, trying to pretend he belonged there?

  As he turned the corner, he saw a fine carriage waiting at the door of his rooming house. He recognized the ducal crest on the door and nearly groaned. What was Emily thinking to come here? He could not doubt she’d be clever enough to have learned his direction. But she had to know this was no place for her. He hurried to the coach, but another face looked down at him from the open window.

  “Inside,” Lady Minerva ordered him. Then she glanced around as if to make sure no one would notice.

  Bemused, Jamie climbed into the coach with her. She was dressed all in black, and as she closed the window and the shutters, she became a shadow across from him.

  “You will not be attending the dinner party tonight,” she said.

  So he wasn’t the only one having second thoughts. Somehow, her insistence only strengthened his resolve. “I’m afraid you can’t dictate the actions of the court, your ladyship.”

  She sniffed. “I most certainly can. A word in your magistrate’s ear should do the trick.”

  He couldn’t have her telling tales. Perhaps he should show her the benefits. “Then you want Lady Emily to marry the fellow, despite all his sins,” he said.

  “Sins can be forgiven,” she retorted. “Poor manners cannot.”

  Jamie couldn’t help his chuckle. “Very likely true, in your world. Manners are less important in mine.”

  “Only because you insist upon staying in the gutter.”

  Jamie stiffened.

  She leaned across the coach. “I know why you’re doing this. You want revenge against the Townsends for how they treated your mother. But pretending an affection for my niece to allow you to gain admittance to their circle is wrong.”

  “My admiration for your niece,” he said, finding the words tight in his throat, “is no pretense.”

  She sat back. “Interesting.” He could hear the calculation behind the word. “You know, of course, that her father would never countenance a match between the two of you.”

  He knew. And hearing it said so firmly only made the matter worse. “That’s not important. What is important is keeping her safe.”

  “Lord Robert wouldn’t dare harm her,” she said with a wave of her frail hand.

  She could not know, and he could not tell her until he had proof. “I made your niece a promise to attend, your ladyship. I won’t let her down.”

  “Even if your job was at stake?” she challenged.

  He knew his job was very much at stake. Very likely, his mother’s reputation was at stake too. But Emily’s life was far more important.

  “Even then,” he said, matter settled in his own mind. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare. It takes a great deal of effort for someone like me to be ready for dinner with people like you.”

  *

  Emily had attended services with Lady Minerva and 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, Lady Minerva having claimed an appointment elsewhere. 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. 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 join Society. You can do that well enough as Lord Robert’s wife. 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 was only beginning to understand the depth of her disgust with the idea of marrying Lord Robert. She would go from being the Duke of Emerson’s daughter to being Lord Robert’s wife, a faceless, graceless creature with no standing of her own. Was there no time she might be simply Emily Southwell?

  She was merely 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, Lady Minerva, 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 sofas and chairs, the sumptuousness of their costume nearly as grand as the gilt and velvet of the furnishings. 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. Only Lady Rollings, standing with her husband to the side where she could keep an eye on things, looked less than pleased with them.

  Of course, Emily and Priscilla were not allowed to go to them. Instead, a lady in a fashionable rose gown and silver turban rushed forward to take His Grace’s hand. “Emerson, Lady Minerva, 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 learn
ed to make a game of it; it was the only way to remember all the names and titles.

  Countess Baminger had a big body. Lady Eglantine had a nose like an elephant. The Marquess of Skelcroft had hands as cold as a skeleton’s; she felt them through her gloves. She was quite glad when she and Priscilla could escape the others and join Ariadne and Daphne by the fire.

  But immediately Priscilla rounded on her. “What were you thinking?” she demanded. “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 her friends 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. “What of your struggle? 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. “I know you hope Mr. Cropper to be your trump suit. When do you expect him?”

  Emily’s stomach tightened. “Any moment. Lady Wakenoak very graciously agreed to invite him.”