Art and Artifice (26 page)

More gasps rang out.

“That’s silly!” Acantha Dalrymple cried, hand
on her sapphires. “Lord Robert’s no thief. My jewels are right
here.”

“No, they aren’t,” Daphne said. “Lady Emily
is telling the truth. I heard Lord Robert confess.”

Now Emily frowned. “You did?”

Daphne nodded. “I heard voices so I crawled
out on the ledge by the ladies’ retiring room.”

“You could have been killed,” Lady Minerva
scolded.

“Not really,” Daphne said. “I dragged the
commode to the window and tied my train to it as an anchor. And I
saw the entire scene. Besides, someone had to protect Lady Emily,
and I have the most skill.”

“My word,” her father muttered. “Don’t tell
your mother.”

“And when I came down from the retiring room,
I discovered the hermit was Mr. Cropper, and I knew everything
would be fine. And it was.”

“It most certainly was not!” Acantha
Dalrymple exclaimed. “Your escapades will be on everyone’s
tongues!”

“Very likely,” Lady Minerva agreed with a
poisoned smile to the girl. “Unfortunately, so will the fact that
your jewels are nothing but paste. I’m sure more than one will
wonder if other aspects of you are too.”

Acantha gasped and clutched her bosom, but
Lady Minerva stepped aside with a smile to Emily. Emily glanced
behind her, but Jamie had gone, melted into the shadows. That’s
what hermits, and Bow Street Runners, did, she supposed, but she
couldn’t help hoping that he hadn’t gone too far as she returned to
the ballroom with the others.

* * *

“So your ball is the huge success you
wanted,” Lady Minerva said a short while later, “if not, precisely,
for the same reasons.”

Emily nodded. It did not quite seem real.
Another member of the Bow Street brigade had come to tell His Grace
that Lord Robert had been caught and taken to Newgate Prison. Her
art had won the day over his artifice.

Lady Minerva leaned closer. “I was working on
your behalf all along, you know. Only don’t tell your father. I
will disavow all knowledge.” She sailed off to shoo the fairies
away from the petite fours lined up on the confections table.

But though her aunt might pretend to know
nothing, others suspected more. People she’d only just met smiled
at her, waved to her from across the room. Her father’s presence
might keep most of their guests from gossiping about the
contretemps in the garden, but rumor had circulated that something
had happened, and Emily and her friends were the heroines of the
piece.

“So now all of London knows about us,”
Ariadne said dreamily as they stood with Priscilla’s fountain of
punch bubbling behind them. “No doubt sonnets are being written to
us as we speak.”

“I can only hope they will be as popular as
what you wrote,” Daphne said. “I cannot believe you let me prattle
on about Lord Snedley.”

Ariadne hung her head.

Daphne draped her arm around her bare
shoulders. “I should have known it was the work of my brilliant
sister.”

Ariadne raised her head with a smile, and all
knew she had been forgiven.

Emily had her own confession to make. When
she’d been alone in the garden, she’d sworn the night would not end
before she told Jamie how she felt. Could he still be about
somewhere? Was that why his colleague had relayed the news of
Robert’s capture? She turned to look and found herself facing Lady
St. Gregory.

“A most interesting night, Lady Emily,” she
said in her usual cool tone. “You are quite a singular young
lady.”

Was that praise? She could not believe it.
“Thank you, your ladyship,” she said politely.

“I wished to speak with you about the
portrait of your mother. Was that difficult?”

Why did Lady St. Gregory ask such questions?
Emily never knew how to answer. “It was the easiest and hardest
piece I’ve ever done,” she admitted. “The colors, her face, they
came easily. Conveying the person I loved was very, very hard.”

Lady St. Gregory smiled. “Yet you did it. I
never met your mother, but looking at the painting, I fancy I know
her, and you. I imagine she’d be very, very proud of you.”

Emily blinked back tears. “Thank you, your
ladyship.”

Lady St. Gregory inclined her head. “I give
praise where it is due. I believe we have room for an artist of
your caliber in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. What do you
say?”

Emily stared at her. Then, seeing the truth
in the woman’s broad smile, she broke into a grin herself. “I’d say
thank you very much, your ladyship. I’d be honored!”

Her delight lasted only as long as it took
for Lady St. Gregory to give her the particulars of the next
meeting. Then her stomach began to squirm again. Her gaze swept the
room, searching. Priscilla was on the dance floor with a tall,
buck-toothed fellow Emily could only guess was the mighty Duke of
Rottenford. Beyond them, Ariadne had cornered the famous playwright
Mr. Sheridan and was happily quizzing him on his life in the
theatre. Not far away, Daphne was chatting with several young
gentlemen, all of whom seemed quite impressed by a lady who could
climb out a window and perch on a ledge in her ball gown.

But then Emily saw him, standing by the doors
to the veranda. The glow from the bees wax candles in the crystal
chandeliers overhead glinted off his russet hair.

He caught her gaze on him and raised two
fingers to his forehead. Then he disappeared out the doors.

Emily followed.

He was waiting in the moonlight. “Everything
all right, then?”

Not in the slightest, but she nodded. “Yes.
Thank you for saving my life. Another fine job for Bow Street.”

He shrugged. “Such is the life of a Runner.
You understand now why I couldn’t give you all the particulars of
this case. Mr. Haversham contacted Bow Street after he found that
his daughter’s jewels had been converted to paste. Then other
jewels began going missing, only to appear again later, and those I
could have tested all ended up paste as well. The only connection
between the cases was Lord Robert.”

She nodded again. Where were her good
intentions? She wanted to stand here, drinking in the sight of him,
talking to him about anything, everything. “So you came in disguise
tonight hoping to catch him.”

“In part,” he said. “But in truth, I had to
come.”

Emily made a face. “I suppose I did sound
rather cryptic in my note. I didn’t want to tell you that I planned
to expose him. I wanted you to see it, to know that I . . .”

He strode to her side and took her hands in
his, bending his head as if to see inside her. “You what, Lady
Emily?”

She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.
Did a lady simply blurt out that she was in love? Once, perhaps,
but surely she’d gathered some sophistication since arriving in
London.

“I wanted to know what you meant by your note
about the ball,” she said instead. “There was the little matter of
an L.”

“An L?” He sounded surprised.

“An L,” she insisted. “Just before your
initials. I could not determine what it meant.”

He was quiet for a moment, which she knew meant he
was choosing his words with care. Finally, he said, “Most people
would take it as a time notation, placed as it was next to the
nine. L for later.”

“Ah,” she said, feeling foolish. “Of
course.”

“A few, however,” he continued, a smile in
his voice, “might take it as a description. L for longingly.”

“Oh,” she said, heartbeat speeding.

“And the bold ones,” he finished, leaning
closer and lowering his voice, “might take it one step further.
Let’s say, L for lovingly.”

Emily swallowed. “I’ve been known to be
bold.”

“I would have wagered my life on it.” He
straightened and let go of her hands. “And that’s why I had to come
to the ball, Emily. The other night, at the dinner party when I
thought I’d lost you to Lord Robert, I lashed out. Forgive me.”

“You had a right,” she protested. “I hadn’t
realized that I was using you. I just wanted to catch him so
badly.”

“We shared that goal from the first,” he
said. “I suppose I wanted to see him punished, to see his family
punished.”

Emily laid a hand on his. “Because of what
they did to your mother. I know. I heard the rumors. I’m so sorry,
Jamie, that neither of you was ever given your due.”

He shrugged again, and this time she thought
it cost him something. “Odd how that matter seems to have settled
itself in my mind,” he murmured. “After a time, it wasn’t Lord
Robert that moved me. It was you. I know the gulf between us. I can
offer you nothing. But whatever happens from here on out, you
deserve to know that I love you.”

The words danced upon the air, bathed her in
joy even as the moonlight bathed his face, so solemn, so intent.
Inside, the musicians struck up a waltz. The sound floated over
them, lilting. Her heart floated right along with it.

“Thank you, Jamie,” she murmured. “And you
deserve to know that I love you too.”

His smile captured her heart and held it
gently. “Dance with me?”

She nodded, too full to speak. He curled his
long fingers around hers and rested his other hand above her waist.
It was as if he held her in his embrace. Her hand trembled as she
placed it on his broad shoulder. His gaze caressed her face, as if
memorizing every line, every curve.

And they began to move in time to the music,
backward, forward, turn. She knew the steps. The last time she’d
practiced them, she’d been partnering Daphne.

This was nothing like partnering Daphne.

His touch was sure, his steps smooth. She was
constantly aware of how close he was, how near their bodies. His
arm brushed her chest as they moved; her cheek grazed his as they
turned. With his gaze on hers, she felt more beautiful than
Priscilla, more graceful than Daphne on horseback, as brilliant as
Ariadne. She knew there was nothing she couldn’t do.

She never wanted the music to stop, but stop it did.
His steps slowed, and she slowed as well, sliding her fingers down
his strong arm. He caught them with his and brought both of her
hands to his chest, tender, reverent. Mesmerized, she willed him to
bend closer, to bridge the distance between his lips and hers.

And he did.

She closed her eyes, let herself feel the
sweet pressure. Time seemed to stop, to stretch. When he drew back,
he sounded as breathless as she felt.

“You should go in,” he murmured with a touch
to her cheek. “They’ll all be looking for you.”

She didn’t want to go, not now, not ever. She
just wanted to be here, with him. But that couldn’t be. Not just
yet. It seemed she’d traded the perilous passion for her painting
for another passion.

Him.

“When will I see you again?” she asked.

His smile was a promise. “Soon. I won’t lose
you.”

She smiled back. “Then, until later,
Jamie.”

He grinned. “Until later, Emily.”

She held his hand a moment longer, then
stepped away from him to return to the ball. They had proved
themselves victorious over theft, scandal, murder, and Priscilla’s
goldfish. Surely she and Jamie would find a way to be together.
Surely this passion she felt for him would endure. Surely there
would be other dances, other kisses. Some might even be better than
this.

She could only dream.

Thank you for
choosing
Art and Artifice
. Please know that Emily and
Jamie’s story doesn’t end here. There’s a wedding in their future;
they just have some things to work out first, and you can follow
along with their courtship in the other Lady Emily Capers books. If
you enjoyed their story, there are several things you could do
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Read more about our intrepid sleuth, Lady
Emily Southwell. She and her friends Priscilla Tate and Daphne and
Ariadne Courdebas have other adventures ahead. If you missed the
first book, which introduced Lady Emily and her friends and the
mysterious happenings at Brentfield Manor, be sure to look for
Secrets and
Sensibilities
.
Turn the page for a sneak peak of
Book 3 of the Lady Emily Capers,
Ballrooms and Blackmail
,
available
now
.

Blessings!

Regina Scott

“What’s wrong?” Lady Emily Southwell cried
when Priscilla burst in on her late that afternoon. She set down
her artist’s pallet and brush and wiped the bit of dark oil paint
from her fingers onto the canvas smock covering her gown.

Priscilla found her tongue tied in shock. She
wasn’t surprised Emily would care. They had been true friends for
far too long. She wasn’t even surprised to find Emily painting.
Emily was, after all, a talented artist who had recently joined
that pinnacle of the art world, the Royal Society for the Beaux
Arts. Priscilla was merely stunned to learn exactly what Emily was
painting.

Or rather
who
.

James Cropper of the Bow Street Runners stood
tall and confident, the polished oak of his staff of office in one
hand, russet hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the
window.

“I thought you despised painting portraits,”
Priscilla whispered as Emily pulled off her smock and stepped away
from the canvas where Jamie’s likeness was slowly forming.