Art and Artifice (20 page)

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 she turned white. Then she hurried past Emily
for the retiring room.

“What have you done to earn her wrath?” Emily
could not help asking him.

Before Jamie could answer, 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.

Jamie stared at Lord Robert, and Lord Robert
stared at Jamie. This was what Emily had planned, but she felt as
stretched and taut as one of her canvasses. She had expected heated
conversation, direct confrontation. But now fire seemed to crackle
between them. 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 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 took Emily’s arm and linked it
through his own. She could see a nerve jumping in his square jaw.
She felt just as jumpy.

“Mr. Cropper,” Lord Robert said, spitting out
the name as if he had 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 dash out of
the ladies’ retiring room. Her face was flushed, the ribbon around
her waist was askew, and the stain seemed to have spread as it
soaked into the silk. 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 was saying to Jamie. “You, however, are not. If you had
any notion of good breeding, you would have refused.”

Had she 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?

“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 stiffened, but Lord Robert merely shook
his head. “Listening to rumor, are you, Cropper?”

“Or investigating one.”

Investigating paste jewels? Surely Lord
Robert had more sense than to steal paste.

Lord Robert leaned closer, 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? Did Jamie have enough evidence
for that? Despite herself, hope bloomed.

“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’s mouth lifted in a caricature of
a smile. “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 shot
out of Jamie like a blast from a canon. She wanted to sooth the
wound, but she had no idea what had caused it.

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

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 with them.

“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, he hesitated, staring at
Jamie, and Emily found herself staring at her father, her arms
falling to her sides. Why didn’t he move? He was never at a loss
for words, never discomposed. Could His Grace know something about
Jamie that she didn’t?

Then her father 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 Emily’s
father’s hand. “She 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?

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 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 her his arm.

He frowned. “Emily? Did you hear me?”

She did, to her everlasting regret. The dread in her
stomach solidified into a rock. She wanted to turn away, stuff her
fingers in her ears. She wanted to 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, putting 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 look at him? Sympathy? Pity?
Determination to bring her to his side instead?

She couldn’t look.

Lord Robert fell into step behind them as they made
their way down the corridor, like the executioner carrying the axe
to the block. Did he know she was ready to bolt?

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

He patted her hand, eyes 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, gaze just as warm, “there will be other balls.”

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. “I have already spoken with the Tates and agreed to fund the
affair for your friend. So, you have no reason for concern. I am
persuaded that Lord Robert will make you the best of husbands. And
I only want the best for you. You understand that, don’t you?”

Emily managed a nod. She knew His Grace had her best
interests at heart. She simply had to find something to convince
him her best 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 just down the corridor, she
felt more worn than if she’d walked ten miles. It seemed another
ten miles to reach the desk before the fire, where Lord Wakenoak
stood with a small man wearing spectacles.

“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. She 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 other fellow, who was apparently a solicitor. “A
fine dowry for my lovely daughter with plenty of pin money.”

As if she cared about pins. She’d prefer to spend
the money on paints. Perhaps she could muddle along without the
Royal Society’s acceptance. Maybe Miss Alexander, no Lady
Brentfield, would help her when she returned from her honeymoon. If
not, Emily 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. She could not imagine being intimate with Lord Robert. The
rock squeezed against her lungs, making it impossible to gasp in a
breath.

The solicitor dipped the 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
were too heavy to take it.

“And now you, Lady Emily,” he prompted as if she
were a simpleton and could not guess why he 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. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want the pen, didn’t want
to sign, 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 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 shaft of the pen, bent,
and signed her name. It was probably for the last time. Soon she
would be a Townsend, not a Southwell.

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 him 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.”

Emily felt as if she’d stepped in mud. “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 weight was crawling up her throat, threatening
to choke her. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she tried.

“The only joke is your life before this,” he said,
pausing in the doorway to the withdrawing room, where everyone
stood with glasses of 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.”

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

“Wish us happy, everyone!” Lord Robert called. “Lady
Emily and I will marry this Tuesday.”

Lady Emily would be dead by this Monday. 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 velvet whispered as everyone’s arms were
raised in toast.

Everyone’s but Jamie’s.

Her gaze met his across the room, narrowed until she
could see nothing and no one else. Gone was his wicked smile. His
remarkably fine gray eyes were dark, as if in accusation or
pain.

He didn’t understand how she could have agreed to
marry a dastard 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 her 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 knew it,
he 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 her 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.”