Art and Artifice (19 page)

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 learned 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.”

“Lord Snedley would be appalled at asking her
so late,” Daphne put in. “But he says that sometimes drastic
measures are needed, such as when your hostess serves blanc mange
with tripe.”

“But bringing in Mr. Cropper may not be
drastic enough,” Priscilla insisted, 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.”

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

“Lord Robert, Lord Quincy, and Mr.
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, curling lazily over his brow.
The other had hair as black as jet, short-cropped, and as dramatic
as his angular features.

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

Beside her, she felt Ariadne begin to shake.
Glancing at her friend, she 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,” 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 Tate, Miss Courdebas, and Miss Ariadne
Courdebas.”

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

“Ladies,” Lord Robert said with a nod. “How
wonderful you could join us tonight. 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 whispered with an
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. She
stared in obvious horror as the goblet tumbled to the Oriental
carpet, splashing rosy liquid all down the front of her gown.

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

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

Emily did not wait to see what Lord Robert or
his friends would do. She simply hurried after Ariadne, catching up
with her in the corridor just outside the withdrawing room.

“Are you all right?” Emily asked.

Ariadne sniffed back a tear, the candlelight
from the golden wall sconce making her face look blotchy already.
“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.”

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 footman, who pointed out the door to the ladies’
retiring room. “Nonsense,” she said, as they headed in that
direction. “Anyone could spill. I’m certain there must be some
remedy. What would Lord Snedley advise?”

“Something terribly useless, no doubt,”
Ariadne said with another sniff. “However, I know what to do about
this situation. 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’s round face was melting into pity, and Emily knew she
should leave her friend some pride.

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

And then she saw him.

Jamie stood in the corridor for a moment
before murmuring something to the footman, as if he preferred to
enter the room unannounced. She 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.

His gaze met hers, and the very air seemed to
sparkle. He touched two fingers to his forehead. “Mr. James
Cropper, reporting as requested, your ladyship.”

Warmth 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 were unsure of his welcome,
unsure of her. Questions were written in those gray eyes, in the
tilt of his head, and she didn’t know how to answer.