Art and Artifice (7 page)

She despised pink.

Truly, was there ever a more insipid color?
It neither made the bold statement of red nor whispered the purity
of white. Yet she was convinced that His Grace would be the
happiest of men if she wore nothing but that color. Pink, he seemed
to think, was singularly feminine.

It was simply not her.

Candles positioned strategically around the room as
evening closed in around her, she set up the larger of the two
seasoned canvasses that Miss Alexander had sent with her to London
and stood staring at the creamy surface before sketching out the
basic scene in charcoal. It would be a huge clash, the battle lines
wavering, bodies strewn from here to the far horizon, her most
glorious work yet. And maybe, in the foreground, a single trampled
rose.

But still her focus eluded her. She kept looking at
her outlined soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they
felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they
feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish to find someone close by who
loved them, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?

She shook her head. This mawkish attitude was
quite unlike her. Surely Mr. Cropper had put such thoughts in her
head with his talk of how a wounded man felt about the situation.
She should be concentrating on creating something of worth,
something that would make Lady St. Gregory open her arms and
welcome Emily into the Royal Society. What could be finer than the
company of other artists, people who thought like she did, people
who understood and respected her? She could not let Lord Robert, or
James Cropper, spoil that future for her.

Even though a certain Bow Street Runner tried
to spoil her evening.

She had just started mixing her paints when
Warburton coughed from the doorway. “Mr. James Cropper to see you,
your ladyship,” he informed her when she glanced in his
direction.

James Cropper, here? Perhaps he’d
reconsidered her request to investigate Lord Robert. What else
could he possibly have to say to her? The very thought had her
pulling off her apron and hurrying to follow Warburton down the
corridor. But instead of continuing downstairs to the sitting room,
he paused before another door.

Emily frowned. “You put him in the
withdrawing room? That’s generally reserved for family and close
friends.”

“Is he neither?” Warburton asked, one white
brow upraised. “My mistake.”

She had never considered the fact that
Warburton might make a mistake. The very idea seemed preposterous.
But she had to agree that she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with
James Cropper.

“Your aunt will be joining you shortly,”
Warburton promised before opening the door for her. She was only
glad to see that one of the footmen was already in the room,
stoking up the fire, which somehow did not seem as vivid as Mr.
Cropper’s hair.

Or as determined as the frown he aimed her
way.

* * *

At the sound of the door opening, Jamie
turned from the fire to regard the woman he’d come to see. He was
ready to issue a stinging rebuke, a warning not to interfere in Bow
Street business. But the sight of her made the words dry up in his
mouth.

Gone were the fine silk gowns, the prim white
gloves. Instead, a simple dress draped her lithe figure, and her
graceful, long-fingered hands were bare.

No, not bare, he corrected himself. Color
speckled them—scarlet and navy and emerald. Paint? She painted!
He’d have to look at those canvasses downstairs again, but he’d
wager they were all hers. Small wonder she’d been so prickly when
he’d commented on them.

“Lady Emily,” he said, remembering the
manners his mother had instilled in him and touching two fingers to
his brow in respect. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“Mr. Cropper,” she said, moving into the room
more warily than her usual brisk manner. “Have you come to
apologize?”

Jamie dropped his hand with a smile. “I
wasn’t aware I had done you a disservice, your ladyship.”

“You refused my commission,” she pointed out,
approaching him with eyes narrowed. “Yet I find you skulking about
near Lord Robert’s home. Perhaps you’ve come to offer an
explanation.”

He took a step closer, aware of the open door
and the footman at his back. “I’ve come to offer a warning. You’re
mucking about with things beyond your ken. Stop now, before someone
gets hurt.”

She met him gaze for gaze. “Someone is
already hurt, Mr. Cropper.”

Had she heard the rumors then? He needed
facts, not far-fetched fancies. “I’m not sure what you mean, Lady
Emily,” he stalled.

Something was working in those dark eyes.
Frustration vied with a darker emotion. Despair? Had the dastard
dared to lay hands on her? Despite himself he touched her arm,
gently, carefully. “Tell me.”

Her jaw worked a moment, then she took a deep
breath. “I have recently become aware that Lord Robert may be less
than a gentleman.”

He could feel her tremble with the knowledge.
“Has he hurt you?”

She nodded, and his heart sank. Another life
ruined! How many would have to suffer before the man was caught! He
pulled back his hand, wishing he knew how to use it to set things
right.

“He insists that I give up something precious
to me,” she said. “Something I promised myself to pursue. He cares
nothing for me. ”

Though he heard the frustration behind the
words, he did not hear the bleak pain he had expected. He gathered
his emotions, tucked them carefully away. She had not been harmed,
yet. It was his duty to protect her.

“There’s not a perfect gentleman in London
from my vantage point, your ladyship,” he said, taking a step back
from her. “But I advise you to stay away from the fellow until Bow
Street is satisfied.”

She blinked. “Then you are investigating
him.” She closed the distance, gaze intent. “Tell me why. What has
he done?”

“The matter is confidential,” Jamie started,
when her aunt appeared in the doorway. He was thankful that he’d
insisted on keeping his cap. Now he slipped it back on, pulled it
low.

“Just see that you stay away from him,” he
repeated. “When we have results, you’ll hear of it.” He pushed past
her and kept his face turned away as he went by her aunt. The fewer
people who knew his connection to the high and mighty Townsends,
the better. He didn’t want to be accused of having a vendetta
against the family that had refused to help his mother or
acknowledge his existence, even if that vendetta was entirely
warranted in this case. He could only hope Lady Emily could be kept
out of it.

Infuriating fellow! Emily wanted to seize one
of the Wedgwood vases on the mantel and hurl it after James
Cropper’s rapidly departing body. Well, she’d said it before, and
it seemed as if she must say it again. If he would not stop Lord
Robert, she would.

“Who was that?” Lady Minerva asked, frowning
after him. “I thought Warburton said you had a caller.”

“No one of import,” Emily assured her. “I am
persuaded I can do much better without his attendance.”

“Well, certainly,” Lady Minerva said. “Though
you were a bit ham-handed this morning. Half of London must know
you suspect Lord Robert of skullduggery by the way you dashed
about.”

Emily sighed. “You saw us.”

“I see most things.” Her aunt went to the
sofa, took a seat, and patted the upholstery next to her. “Come. We
should talk.”

Emily went to sit, resigned to a scolding.
Though the firelight played across her aunt’s stern features, it
did not warm them.

“I do not wish to marry Lord Robert
Townsend,” she told her aunt. “And nothing you can say will make me
change my mind.”

“So you are content to become like me,” her
aunt said, leaning back against the sofa and crossing her arms over
the chest of her gray evening dress, her Paisley shawl catching
against the material. “Old, crotchety, despised by her family.”

“You aren’t despised,” Emily started, but her
aunt held up one hand.

“Yes, I am. I am called in to deal with
sickness, death, and abandonment. That’s what a spinster aunt is
for.”

Emily grimaced. “I’m not exactly a spinster
aunt.”

“Not until your sister Helena conceives. Be
thankful for that. And even then you may have more influence than
you think. I imagine if you can convince your father that you wish
to remain unwed, you might command a house in the country, perhaps
a visit to London during the Season.”

The image was not unwelcome. A house of her
own, somewhere to paint, to take long walks across the fields, to
worship in the solace of a cozy country chapel like the one she’d
seen recently at the village of Wenwood near the Barnsley School.
And London during the Season—the art galleries, the Royal Society
annual art exhibition, perhaps her own pieces hanging for all to
see. She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her.

“You’re too young, you know,” her aunt said,
as if determined to burst any bubble of hope. “You cannot possibly
live alone at seventeen, and very likely not even after you reach
your majority at twenty-one.”

This time Emily’s sigh was shorter and more
forceful. “So you will have it there is no other course but
marriage.”

Lady Minerva smiled, a pointed, crooked,
determined smile. “Not at all, my dear. I’m saying that if you wish
your quaint country cottage, you need someone to chaperon you.
Promise me a home with you, permanently, and I will do all I can to
convince your father this match with Lord Robert is ill
conceived.”

Emily stared at her. “You fraud! You make
yourself out to be simple, but you know exactly what you’re
about.”

Her smile softened. “Indeed I do, my dear. I
like to think I am a survivor. And I can help you survive, if you
will allow it.”

Living with Lady Minerva, for the rest of her
life? The idea was not as foreign as it would have been even a
quarter hour before. When she considered the matter, her aunt’s
history and her own were not so different—called here and there,
never quite welcome, always the outsider. She put out her hand. “We
are agreed. You have a home with me so long as I have one to
command.”

Her aunt seized her hand, wrung it like a
lifeline. “And you have an ally in me. Now we must convince your
father to allow you to cry off.”

“Easier said than done,” Emily assured her.
“I want to prove to him his faith in Lord Robert is misplaced. But
first I must catch Lord Robert in some indiscretion.”

Her aunt hitched her shawl closer. “That
shouldn’t be so difficult. The boy has been a wild one since his
youth.”

“So I have heard. But he has apparently
showed signs of reforming.”

Lady Minerva snorted. “Reformation is
relative. He must have done something horrid or you would not be
contacting Bow Street.”

Emily scowled at her. “Is there anything you
don’t know?”

“Very little,” her aunt said cheerily. “I
shall not interfere with your friends’ investigation of the fellow,
but do keep me apprised of your progress. I’ll be happy to put my
powers of observation to work on your behalf.”

Emily had sufficient reason to feel confident
in her own powers of observation. After all, hadn’t she been the
one to first suspect that Priscilla’s aunt might be homicidal?
Surely, if she spent some time with Lord Robert, she’d be able to
ferret out his secrets. Attempting to find him didn’t hold much
promise. Perhaps she should encourage him to come to her.

“Thank you,” she told her aunt, “but I have
some idea how I wish to continue this investigation. Young ladies
on their Season generally see the sights of London, do they
not?”

“Quite often,” Lady Minerva agreed. “The
death masks at the Tower, the catacombs under Westminster, the
skeletons at the Hunterian Museum, that sort of thing.”

Sometimes it was a little scary how much her
aunt appreciated the same things she did. Could a fascination with
battles and death run in the family? Unfortunately, she somehow
doubted Lord Robert would be amused by any of those things.

“Is there something more popular,” Emily
ventured, “perhaps with an artistic flair, to which I might request
that he escort me?”

“The Parthenon Marbles?” Lady Minerva
suggested. “They have been all the rage since Lord Elgin stole
them.”

Emily had heard of the sculptures from the
Parthenon that Lord Elgin had shipped from Greece. “The very
thing,” she said, rising to go change for dinner. “I’ll send a note
asking Lord Robert to show me the Marbles, tomorrow if possible.
Then we shall see what we shall see.”

* * *

Late the next
morning, Emily was trying to determine how blood would pool around
a decapitated body when the footman announced she had visitors.
Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne were eager to share information, but
she only agreed to discuss the matter with them after they promised
to pose for her battle scene. She would have preferred to use the
footmen. Unfortunately, the last time she’d asked when she’d been
at their country seat on holiday, two of the footmen had become so
carried away that a Chinese vase had been damaged, and Warburton
had asked her not to involve the staff again.

As it was, only Daphne could stand straight
and valiant enough to do her any good as a model soldier. Ariadne
made an excellent corpse. Priscilla insisted on playing a duchess
watching from the edge of the battlefield. Emily pointed out that
duchesses, or most dukes for that matter, seldom went to war, but
Priscilla was adamant, so Emily let it go at that.

“So,” she said as she studied the angle of
Daphne’s chin, “we know that Lord Robert Townsend has no money and
likes the ladies all too well.”

“Definitely not what a hero is made of,”
Ariadne said, raising her head into a patch of sunlight that turned
her hair to gold. “Though it appears he has been voted in to
White’s.”