Art and Artifice (4 page)

Emily wanted to pick up the teapot and douse
his ridiculous smile. He had the audacity to ruin her entire
Season, nay her entire life! And then expected her and her friends
to dine with him?

Was he nothing but artifice? Had he no
sensibilities? No refinement of spirit?

No idea he had laid down a challenge she had
no choice but to accept? For she would not give up her painting,
and Lord Robert Townsend would rue the day he dared to stop
her.

She threw him out, of course. Or rather, she stalked
out of the elegant withdrawing room, forcing him to follow, and led
him down the carpeted stairs to Warburton.

“Our guest has a pressing engagement,” she said.
“Please see him out.”

Lord Robert blinked, but his good manners
apparently prevented him from arguing with her. He suffered himself
to pick up his top hat and gloves and be ushered out the door by an
ever dignified Warburton.

When Emily returned to the withdrawing room,
she could see that her friends were not nearly so composed. Indeed,
they looked as depressed as she felt. Priscilla was staring off in
the distance, her chest rising and falling as if she concentrated
on taking deep, even breaths. Ariadne sat slumped in her chair, her
reticule pooled in the lap of her gown like a wilted flower. Daphne
chewed her lower lip and blinked rapidly as if fighting tears.
Either that or Lord Snedley advised blinking when faced with
imminent disaster.

Seeing Emily in the doorway, Priscilla rose
to her feet and shook out her skirts. “Everyone up. We have no time
for this nonsense. We have much to do in the next eleven days.”

As Emily frowned, Daphne obligingly leaped to
her feet, setting the teapot on the table in front of her to
clattering.

Ariadne got up more slowly. “What must we
do?”

Priscilla waved her hands as if shooing away
any potential objections. “Prepare for the Ball, of course!”

Daphne brightened. “Then the Ball is still
on?”

“The Ball,” Priscilla said with a sniff, “was
never off.”

“That is news to me,” Emily said, moving into
the room. “What do you know that I have missed, Pris?”

Priscilla raised her chin so that her golden curls
caught the sunlight. “Only that you cannot listen to Lord Robert.
Some gentlemen are entirely too full of themselves, and I can see
that he’s one of them.”

“I told you he was not to be trusted,” Daphne
added. “A gentleman is a gentleman indeed.” She narrowed her sky
blue eyes. “Perhaps
he
should read Lord Snedley.”

Emily knew she should probably invite them to
sit back down and have a cup of tea, but the silver pot and the
dainty flowered China cups had never looked less inviting. Instead
she wandered to the window and gazed out at the street below. Fine
carriages and gentlemen in tailored coats hurried past, as if they
enjoyed their freedom. Was she never to have any?

“Lord Robert has always been arrogant,” she
told her friends. “Once when we were children, he held my riding
crop over my head and refused to give it back until I kissed his
boots. I was fully prepared to spit on them instead, but his older
brother intervened.”

“He seems to be thinking of his family
instead of himself in this instance,” Ariadne pointed out. “He was
most intent in supporting his widowed mother.” She sighed as if she
found the trait highly commendable.

Emily supposed it was. Certainly she had
wondered whether the marriage might please her father. She puffed
out a sigh that fogged the glass. “I cannot quite believe Lord
Robert is so reformed.” She turned to face the others. “He must be
up to something.”

Priscilla shook her head. “I never have
understood why you must see the dark in every situation, Emily, but
I fear you’re right this time.”

Ariadne rubbed a hand along the muslin of her
skirt. “Perhaps his love of Emily motivates him to marry so
quickly. Perhaps he cannot bear to share her with the rest of the
world.” She blinked. “Oh, that’s good.”

Priscilla shook her head again. “If he truly
loved her he would want her to be happy. How can she possibly be
happy if we must cancel the Ball?”

“He didn’t say you must cancel it,” Ariadne
reminded her. “Only that Lady Emily cannot attend. You could still
come out.”

Priscilla touched her slender neck as if she
felt unseen hands strangling her. “Impossible. His Grace is funding
the event. Mother has told everyone the Duke of Emerson’s daughter
is a dear friend. The Prince won’t come just to see me, and neither
will a great many others in London Society, not after Aunt Sylvia’s
fall from grace. We may have hidden the full extent of the scandal,
but they’ll all have heard she’s now residing with keepers.”

Ariadne and Daphne’s faces melted into pity.
Emily knew her face must look much the same.

“It isn’t your fault your aunt went mad and
tried to smother Lord Brentfield with a feather pillow,” Ariadne
assured Priscilla, hurrying up to her and laying a hand on her arm.
“Who could possibly have foreseen that outcome?”

They all nodded. They had discussed last
month’s strange events at Brentfield Manor so many times there was
no need to go over the fine points. The four of them had gone to
the estate under Miss Alexander’s chaperonage to spend Easter
holiday with Priscilla’s widowed aunt, the Countess of Brentfield,
only to learn that the countess had grown greedy. Unsatisfied with
her widow’s portion, she’d set her cap at the new Lord Brentfield
instead. When the fellow had preferred Miss Alexander to her or
even Priscilla, she’d tried to kill him. She might have succeeded
if Emily hadn’t suspected her. And if Priscilla’s aunt hadn’t taken
a bad fall while trying to escape, the woman might even now be in
Newgate Prison, waiting to be hanged.

And wouldn’t that have been a terrible
scandal!

“Aunt Sylvia’s madness surprised everyone,”
Priscilla said now, lowering her gaze, “most of all my parents.
Unfortunately, Aunt Sylvia’s money was to pay for my Season. All I
have is the gowns she already purchased. If I am to redeem us, I
must marry well.”

“But what of love?” Ariadne asked with a
frown.

Priscilla raised her head and tossed her
curls. “I imagine love and compatibility are very nice for those
who can afford them. After this business at Brentfield, I must look
for more.”

Emily felt as if her own heart was
tightening. “And in doing so, you settle for less,” she
murmured.

Priscilla’s fingers gripped her gown as if
she would tear the fabric. “Do you think I like it? But every day
I’m reminded of the necessity. Father is a shadow of himself,
scuttling around as if he caused the scandal. Mother has lost all
confidence. She frets and moans over every decision, as if my come
out alone can save us.”

Emily crossed the room to her side and joined
Ariadne in laying a hand on Priscilla. “I am truly sorry for your
aunt’s madness. You deserve better.”

Tears clustered on Priscilla’s golden lashes.
“And you deserve a handsome, charming husband who appreciates your
art.”

“I am convinced such a fellow does not
exist,” Emily began, but Ariadne dropped her hold and raised her
head.

“I have it! I don’t know why I didn’t think
of it before. It’s a perfectly good gambit, used by any number of
playwrights. You must do something horrid, Emily, to give him a
disgust of you so he will be more than happy to release you from
the engagement.”

The others brightened as well, but Emily
could not be so easily convinced. If he had not already been
frightened off by her looks or her demeanor, he was unlikely to let
her go so easily. “And how would I do that?” she asked.

“Stuff yourself at dinner,” Ariadne advised.
“Ladies must be dainty eaters. And complain of every ache and pain.
I have been told that men hate that.”

“Trip over the hem of your gown,” Daphne
added. “Drop your fork on the floor—at least twice. And belch, at
every course, loudly.”

“I shall not only disgust them,” Emily
predicted, “I will disgust myself as well.”

“You need not go so far,” Priscilla said.
“Simply show them your paintings.”

For a full three ticks of the Tompion clock
on the mantle, no one said anything.

“The one commemorating when Miss Alexander
killed that horrendous spider,” Daphne said, bouncing in her
enthusiasm. “I could not eat for days after seeing it.”

“I gave it to Miss Alexander as a wedding
present,” Emily replied, raising her chin.

“Then your rendition of the Crucifixion,”
Ariadne argued. “The blood on our Lord’s face is so thick you can
barely make out his features.”

“That’s because no one knows his features,”
Emily reminded her. “And I sent it to the Reverend Wellfordhouse in
Wenwood to thank him for his kindness when we visited.”

“One of your battle scenes then,” Priscilla
insisted. “A particularly gruesome one like
The Battle of
Hastings
. They will not want to be related to a woman who sees
such things in her head, much less immortalizes them for all to
see. Trust me, Emily. Show them one of your paintings, and your
worries are over.”

Emily wanted to be angry with her. She’d
asked for help in a deeply personal matter, and the best Priscilla
could do was malign her life’s passion? Emily didn’t dabble in
watercolor bowls of fruit. She used oils, bold strokes, dark
colors; she brought to life important subjects like the tragic
deaths of heroes and glorious, blood-drenched battles. Her scenes
were so real she fancied she felt the beat of the drummer calling
the march, heard the roar of canons in the distance. When she
painted, she quite forgot that any other world existed.

Emily was a good artist. Miss Alexander was a better
one, and she said Emily was the best student she’d ever had. She
said Emily had promise. Emily wanted to deflate Priscilla’s
pretensions for daring to imply that Emily’s art would disgust
anyone.

Unfortunately, Priscilla was right.

“It won’t be enough,” Emily predicted. “And
I’d far prefer to know the reason behind this rush to a wedding. I
am convinced we do not know the truth about Lord Robert
Townsend.”

“Then perhaps,” Priscilla said, deigning to
sit at last, “we ought to send for Bow Street. It is their duty to
investigate people.”

“Of course!” Ariadne cried, dropping into a
seat as well.

“Bow Street!” Daphne intoned, eyes wide.
“Even Lord Snedley would approve.”

Hope seemed to be filling the room at last,
brighter than the weak spring sunlight trickling through the
window. Emily returned to her seat. “Is it possible to hire Bow
Street?”

“Quite possible,” Priscilla assured her,
reaching for the teapot to pour herself a cup. “You can be sure
Aunt Sylvia hired them to investigate any gentleman she was
interested in attaching, just to be certain the fellow was
aboveboard and sufficiently wealthy, of course.”

“Lord Snedley advises that any acquaintance
should undergo the most strict scrutiny before being given entrance
to the inner sanctum,” Daphne advised. “Unless of course you admire
their quizzing glass.”

“Send for Bow Street, Emily,” Ariadne agreed.
“They should be able to investigate Lord Robert and learn his
secrets.”

Emily nodded, taking the warm silver pot from
Priscilla and pouring Daphne and Ariadne a cup. “It’s decided then.
We’ll enlist the aid of Bow Street and determine exactly what Lord
Robert Townsend is up to.” They raised their cups in toast.

* * *

Jamie could not believe that he was calling
at the Duke of Emerson’s home for the second day in a row. This
time, however, it was at the stated request of the duke
himself.

“Seems he’s on to the fellow as well,” the
clerk at the Bow Street office had reported when he’d told Jamie
about the note that had arrived. “Best you hop over there and see
what can be done.”

Jamie had hopped, but instead of being
ushered into the duke’s presence, the starched up butler Mr.
Warburton had led him to the upstairs withdrawing room and into the
inquisitive gazes of four lovely young ladies.

He had to fight against adjusting his cravat
as the butler said, “Mr. James Cropper of Bow Street to see you,
Lady Emily.”

“Of Bow Street?” Once more her dark eyes were
narrowed at him, as if she suspected him of telling falsehoods.
Last night she’d accused him of being a thief—him, the youngest
fellow ever to be made thief-taker in Bow Street! He bowed to them
all, then focused his gaze on her.

“Of Bow Street,” he repeated. “I understand
you have reason to believe Lord Robert Townsend is up to no
good.”

Immediately she swallowed and looked away.
Had the cad already trifled with her affections? Jamie dropped his
hand and felt his fist tightening at the thought.

It was the girl with the cascade of golden
curls who answered him, chin high and voice proud. “Indeed we do.
He appears to be entirely uncivilized.”

The rounder girl with the darker blond hair
nodded. “He would be cast as the villain in any play, I’m convinced
of it.”

The taller girl with the hair as thick as
warm honey nodded vigorously. “He cannot be bothered to attend to
the social niceties. Lord Snedley says such men should be forced to
sit upon pin cushions for a week.”

He didn’t know this Snedley fellow, but he
rather thought Robert Townsend deserved something harsher than a
prickly seat. He pulled out his notebook and a stub of a pencil and
flipped to a blank page.

“So what exactly has he stolen?” he
asked.

In the silence, he would hear a carriage
rolling by outside. He glanced up to find them regarding each other
with frowns.

“We are not aware that he has stolen
anything,” Lady Emily said, rather quellingly, he thought, as if
she was determined that none of the others should tell tales.