Art and Artifice (2 page)

“I expect you will want to see that your room
is set up to your liking,” Lady Minerva said, moving toward the
stairs. “Join us downstairs for dinner. You needn’t dress
tonight.”

And a lovely welcome home to you too
,
Emily thought, following her. What, had she imagined her father
would tarry at the house just for her? He had far more important
matters to tend to. And so did she. Raising her head, she climbed
the stairs for the chamber story.

She had never been to the London townhouse
before, but she could see it was generally well appointed, though
the pale green and blue paint of the walls was not to her taste.
She was thankful, when she followed the footmen who were carrying
the accumulated wealth of six years at boarding school up the
curving stairs to her new bedchamber, to find the space much to her
liking. The room was decorated in a Chinese theme, the walls
covered in painted silk showing white and black birds with tall
crowns and long tails. The woodwork was trimmed in gold, and gold
highlighted the tall window, dressing room door, and the spindles
and headboard of the four-poster bed. Even better was the fact that
there was an unused bedchamber just down the corridor, where she
instructed one of the footmen to erect her easel. She was just
beginning to set up her paints when she heard the sound of the
door.

Her father must be home!

She hurried along the corridor and down the
carpeted stairs, but disappointment met her at the bottom, for the
entry way stood empty. The footmen must already be in the kitchen
preparing to serve dinner. She’d simply have to locate her father
herself. Surely a quiet conversation before dinner was not too much
to ask.

She tried his study first. The books were
neatly lined up on the tall bookcases, the papers stacked on the
desk before the window. But the hearth was dark. She tried the
dining room next and found it equally empty, though three places
had been set in gleaming silver. She went to check the sitting
room, just in case her father was entertaining a caller.

This room was meant to depress the notions of
any upstart bold enough to brave introduction to the Duke of
Emerson. Heavy red brocaded drapes with gold-tasseled pulls covered
the bow window, and red-velvet chairs with clawed feet squatted
before the fire. She sucked in a breath when she sighted a
gentleman standing next to them, then puffed it out when he turned
and she realized it was not her father.

Indeed, he looked nothing like her father.
His hair was the color of the sunset on a stormy day -- red and
gold and brown blending in wild disarray, and his eyes were the
gray of the storm. But his smile, well, his smile was positively
wicked.

“Who are you?” Emily demanded, striding into
the room. “What are you doing here?”

He offered her a bow, cap squashed in one
hand. “Good evening, Lady Emily.”

He knew her name? She was certain she’d never
met him before. She’d have remembered those broad shoulders, that
confident air. Indeed, some part of her was already making notes,
of color, of strength, of fire, to immortalize in a painting. Oh,
but being an artist was a burden some days!

“Answer the question, if you please,” Emily
said, forcing her mind to the moment. “What are you doing in my
home? Who let you in?”

He shrugged, a ripple of muscle under his
brown coat. “Your footmen are far too busy to attend to me.”

Emily gasped. “You sneaked in! Thief!” Small
wonder she hadn’t recognized him. She did not make a habit of
associating with thieves. Nor did she fear them. One shout, one
cry, and a small army would attend her.

“Oh, there are thieves in London, all right,”
he agreed, as if singularly unconcerned about capture. He waved a
hand to encompass the room. “You’d better watch out, or you’ll lose
one of these fine paintings.”

What fine paintings? His Grace had any number
of wonderful pieces from ages past, as well as some truly horrid
portraits of their ancestors. She wasn’t sure which he had ordered
brought to London to decorate the townhouse.

But as she looked around the room, she
recognized each painting as hers.
The Battle of Salamanca
hung over the fire,
The Battle of Hastings
was against the
far wall, and
The Battle of the Nile
was to her right. It
had been one of her first, when she hadn’t quite mastered
perspective. The British and French ships were all jumbled. He
could not be much of a thief if he thought it fine art.

So who exactly was he?

* * *

James Cropper watched as the Duke of
Emerson’s youngest daughter glanced about the room as if seeing it
for the first time. He certainly wouldn’t have put quite so many
magnificent pieces in one place, gilded frames dwarfing the walls,
but then he wasn’t likely to be found living in a townhouse like
this one any time soon.

He wasn’t likely to meet someone of her note
either. She was not in the common way. Her black hair stood all
curly around her face as if it crackled with energy, and those dark
eyes seemed to see right through him. He felt their power as her
gaze speared back to him.

“What do you know of art?” she
challenged.

He glanced out the open door. She couldn’t
have happened upon him at a less opportune time. Things were not
going as he’d expected, and he needed to speak with Lady Minerva.
But though a footman dashed past the opening, Jamie caught no sight
of the elderly lady.

It seemed he would have to answer Lady
Emily’s question, so he looked up at one of the battle scenes. That
hawk-nosed general in the foreground was surely Wellington. He had
the French forces in the crossfire, with heavy casualties on both
sides. His charger rearing, he held his saber aloft to order a
charge.

“I don’t know all that much about art,” Jamie
admitted. “But I’d say this artist never experienced war.”

She stiffened. “Why? What’s wrong with the
piece?”

“Oh, the details are fine enough,” he said.
“I’ve known a few lads who served under Wellington on the
Peninsula. This picture matches their tales, but it doesn’t show
their heart.”

She frowned, moving closer. “What do you
mean?”

She came just under his chin, a nice handful.
Oh, no, my lad, best not to even think such thoughts.
He
returned his focus on the painting and pointed to a fallen soldier.
“Look here at this fellow. He’s gone down. Very likely he’ll never
see home or family again. He knows that by morning, crows will be
picking at him. That’s enough to give a man cause for thought,
cause for fear. Does he look as if he’s thinking about meeting his
Maker?”

She cocked her head, and the scent of lemon
drifted up from her, reminding him of his mother’s tart lemonade.
“I will grant you that he doesn’t look particularly emotional. But
not everyone cries in adversity, sir.”

Something told him she’d be one who braved on
without a tear. She had that militant look in her eye.

“I suppose not,” he said. “But I always
thought art was supposed to illuminate the human condition.”

She raised her chin. “Some artists prefer to
accurately depict history.”

She must certainly admire the artist to
defend the fellow so fervently. “There are books enough on
history,” Jamie replied. “Why bother painting it if that’s all you
want out of it?”

“Why bother?” she sputtered. “Sir, you have
no sensibilities!”

Jamie laughed. Odd that she found him
calloused when he was accused too often of being too emotional, of
taking the side of the victim when it was his job to pursue the
criminal.

But a noise from the corridor caught his ear,
and he saw Lady Minerva heading their way, her brother the Duke of
Emerson beside her. With Lady Emily standing there, looking at
Jamie with a combination of bewilderment and belligerence, now was
not the time to advise her aunt and father that the man they
intended for her might be one of London’s greatest villains.

Instead, he bowed to her again. “I’ve picked
a poor time to visit, I see. You’ll want to speak to your father.
He’s just come home.”

“He has?” She hurried to the door and glanced
out. Her narrow face lit, with a joy and love that wiped away all
the frustration he’d felt from her. For a moment, Jamie simply
stood, gazing at her, amazed by the transformation.

Such a look could make a fellow forget his
task, his goals, and his very self.

That’s when he knew he was truly in
trouble.

Something inside Emily swelled at the sight
of her father walking toward her. He was the perfect duke in her
mind: not too tall, with sandy hair and knowing brown eyes. Every
movement in his fine blue coat said confidence and privilege and
power. Oh, but the mysterious gentleman in the sitting room was in
trouble now. She turned with great pleasure to tell him so, only to
find that he was gone, like smoke up a chimney, leaving the door to
the servant’s stair ajar. Even as she stared in surprise, her
father and aunt reached her.

“What a delightful homecoming,” he said. “Not
even out yet and all set to be married.”

Emily turned her stare on him, feeling as if
the corridor had dipped beneath her feet. “What?”

He smiled fondly. “Lord Robert has been
visiting me and your aunt for the last fortnight, regaling us with
his plans, and I’ve discussed the matter with his brother Lord
Wakenoak. It seems Lord Robert hopes to marry immediately and sweep
you off to Devonshire for a honeymoon. He’s certainly conceived a
passion for you.”

The air in the corridor seemed to be
thinning, her sight dimming. No! She’d never fainted in her life.
And crying would be nearly as bad. She’d cried enough when her
mother died eight years ago; it hadn’t brought her mother back.
Besides, she would much rather solve a problem than cry over
it.

“But I don’t wish to marry so soon, Father,”
she said, forcing her words to come out calm, measured. “You
promised we would host a come out ball. I believe your secretary
has already issued the invitations.”

“Then we will make it a betrothal ball,” her
father, always the diplomat, said.

“I’m certain the goldfish and finches won’t
mind,” Lady Minerva assured her.

The menagerie might not care, but Emily did.
“Father, we must talk. I don’t wish to marry Lord Robert. I haven’t
seen him since I was a child!”

Her father patted her arm. “Now, then,
there’s nothing to fear. He is a fine fellow of good family,
exactly the sort of man your mother would have wanted for you. Once
you see him again, I’m certain you’ll understand the wisdom of this
match.” He turned to the butler, who had approached them and stood
waiting. “Ah, Warburton, what do you have for me?”

“An urgent missive from the Prime Minister,
your Grace,” the butler intoned. “I’ve put it in your study.”

Before Emily could say another word, her
father excused himself and hurried off.

She had hoped to ask about the stranger who
had disappeared from the sitting room, and to continue her
discussion with her father, but the note from the Prime Minster
must have been important, for a footman brought word that her
father would not be dining with them after all. She understood.
Really. Here Parliament thought they had the world’s biggest madman
safely locked away and what did Napoleon do but escape to cause
havoc once more! She’d known it wasn’t her graduation or impending
marriage that had called her father back from the Congress of
Vienna. She did her duty and dined with her aunt, then retired to
her room and plotted.

She’d had simple goals for her Season:
celebrate their entrance to Society with Priscilla, Daphne, and
Ariadne, and take her place in the Royal Society for the Beaux
Arts. Marriage and a protracted honeymoon in another county did not
aid either of those goals. So, Lord Robert would have to change his
plans. Whatever passion he thought he had conceived was
ill-founded. He knew nothing of the woman she had become. She’d
simply have to convince him, and her father, that marriage was not
in their best interests.

Before going to sleep in the feather bed, she
penned several notes and dispatched them with a footman. Two went
to Priscilla and Daphne and Ariadne to attend her in the morning.
The other was more bold. It requested the honor of meeting with
Lady St. Gregory. They had never met, but surely for once, being
the daughter of a duke would work in Emily’s favor.

The lady had yet to answer the next morning
when Emily’s friends arrived. With Lady Minerva still fashionably
abed, Emily was able to meet them in the withdrawing room alone.
First, of course, she had to submit to the usual rituals. She
admired Priscilla’s new pelisse, agreeing that the serpentine green
exactly matched the shade of her eyes. She exchanged hugs with
Daphne and hid the wince when she stepped on Emily’s toe. She
commiserated with Ariadne on her sniffle and assured her that it
was rare to succumb to influenza so early in the spring as the
beginning of April.

Emily made sure they were comfortably seated
on the camel-backed sofa and gilded blue chairs and pointed out the
sweets and tea Warburton had left for their enjoyment. Then she
took a seat in the harp-backed chair opposite them and folded her
hands in the lap of her spruce-colored wool gown. “Father says that
I must marry Lord Robert, immediately.”

Priscilla blanched. “No, no, no! You cannot
get married so soon! I cannot have the Ball without you!”

“And we must have the Ball,” Ariadne
insisted, dark blond curls trembling on either side of her round
face. She always reminded Emily of a canary, busy, inquisitive,
head cocked as if trying to understand every aspect. “You know all
Daphne and I will have is the dinner party Mother has planned.”