La Petite Four (12 page)

“Unfortunately, no,” Priscilla said. “She was entirely too smug about the matter.”

“I still say he’s up to something,” Ariadne insisted.

“I agree,” Emily said. “But what?”

“Perhaps you should discuss the matter with His Grace,” Daphne put in, returning to their sides. “Lord Snedley advises that honesty is the best policy in all things, except when answering the question ‘Does this gown show I’ve eaten a dozen cakes in the last fortnight?’ of course.” She turned to Ariadne. “Mother wants to see your gown now.”

Ariadne waved a hand. “The one she picked out for me looks just like yours, only without the shimmery overskirt. Who needs to see it again?” She turned to Emily. “Daphne’s right. Speak to His Grace.”

Emily shook her head. “I spoke with him last night. He at least intends well by me. He truly believes this marriage will keep me safe. No, I can only go to him when we have something tangible.”

Ariadne’s smile formed, widening her round cheeks. “Then we are still investigating Lord Robert?”

“Yes,” Emily said, lowering her voice and beckoning them closer, “but I think we must narrow our purpose. Mr. Cropper thinks him a criminal, and Acantha Dalrymple thinks him a saint. We have far too many rumors about Lord Robert. We must seek the truth from the man himself. If Acantha is lying, and he is a jewel thief, it may be that he will steal something else. If not, he may show us the truth behind his strange actions. Tomorrow, we shall follow him again, and this time, we won’t stop until we learn his secret!”

15

As if Lord Robert knew they were determined to thwart him, he called on Emily that very afternoon. She was all set to have Warburton turn him away, until she learned he’d brought an acquaintance.

“Lady Honoria St. Gregory,” Warburton intoned as he ushered the lady and Lord Robert into the sitting room. Emily was thoroughly sorry for the gown she’d worn. It was a ruffled pink silk day dress her father had had made for her. She’d hoped she’d spill enough paint on it that she wouldn’t feel guilty giving the thing to the rag man. But painting had once again proven difficult, and the gown had won over
The War of the Roses
.

“I have been telling Lady St. Gregory all about your work,” Lord Robert explained after they had been seated in the claw-footed chairs near the fire.

Lady St. Gregory was already glancing about at the battle scenes. She was younger than Emily had expected, perhaps only ten years Emily’s senior. Her glossy black hair was swept back from a high-cheekboned face; her gaze was as icy blue as the short jacket and matching gown she wore. Her soft pink lips somehow managed to convey her feelings better than the rest of her calm face. As Lady St. Gregory’s lips thinned, Emily gathered with a sinking heart that the sculptress was not exactly pleased with what she saw.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Emily said politely. “I’ve followed your work in the newspapers.”

“Yes,
The Times
in particular has been kind to me,” the lady acknowledged. She did not so much as lean back in the chair, sitting as ramrod straight as Miss Martingale always said a lady should sit. Miss Martingale would have adored Lady St. Gregory: the graceful way she held her gloved hands, the elegant tilt to her chin, the way her embroidered slippers just crossed at the ankles below her blue hem, which had no ruffles whatsoever.

“And what made you decide upon battle scenes?” she asked.

“Yes, that was a bit odd,” Lord Robert agreed. “Though mind you, I think they’re heavenly.”

Emily kept the smile on her face. “I believe we should remember history and honor those who went before. That’s why I also paint myths and the deaths of great leaders.”

Those lips did not warm in the slightest, not even in understanding. “Historical epics. They were all the rage a few years ago.”

She made it sound as if Emily were hopelessly behind the times or blindly following a path laid out by others more talented. Emily swallowed. “I believe an artist should paint what moves her, my lady.”

Lady St. Gregory inclined her head. “I quite agree. Why do I find it difficult to believe that battle scenes and deaths move a young lady of your limited years?”

Emily felt as if she would explode like one of the shells in her battle scenes. She squeezed her knees together to keep from rising, and the ruffles bunched against her shins.

“Perhaps because you do not know me well,” she said with as much civility as she could manage, fingers clutching her locket. “I assure you, I care passionately about the scenes I paint.”

“No doubt,” Lady St. Gregory said.

Why had Emily thought she would have anything in common with this icicle of a woman? There was no sensibility, no generosity of spirit. Lady St. Gregory very likely sculpted the stone by gazing at it in so withering a manner.

“I care so much, in fact,” Emily continued, “that I was hoping to exhibit one of my paintings at Priscilla Tate’s come-out ball. Perhaps that piece will give you a better idea of what I’ve learned.”

Lady St. Gregory frowned. “But Lord Robert tells me you may not be attending the ball after all.”

“Lord Robert is mistaken,” Emily said, glaring at him.

He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Lady Emily is devoted to her craft,” he said to Lady St. Gregory. “I know how much she wants to impress you. As she cannot attend the ball, I thought perhaps you could view her work today. Surely you can see the genius in it.”

Emily felt her gaze softening. Did he truly understand what her painting meant to her, how much she longed to join the Royal Society? Had he sought out the sculptress simply to help Emily reach her dreams? No one had ever done anything of such magnitude for her before.

How very odd that it should be Lord Robert. Was this somehow part of his deceptions? What would it profit him? She had no time for these questions now, not when her future sat so sternly across from her!

“I can see that Lady Emily is talented,” Lady St. Gregory allowed. “I simply question her range.”

Range? What was that supposed to mean? She’d done battles at sea, battles on land, mythical battles in the air! What more did the woman want?

“I find the pieces quite realistic,” Lord Robert argued, “for all my dear Emily has never been to war. The horse in that one has a particularly mean look to it.” He shivered. “I’d not wish to meet its like.”

He was not helping the situation. Emily was tempted to ask him to wait in the library. She didn’t need another witness to her flogging.

“I find no fault in the execution of the pieces,” Lady St. Gregory assured him, “but she is quite correct, Lord Robert. I do not know her.” She leveled her cool gaze on Emily, and Emily had to fight not to squirm under it. “One of the things about great art is that one can learn something of the artist by looking at the creation. I see little of you in these.”

She could not have felt worse if Lady St. Gregory had slapped her. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, my lady.”

Lady St. Gregory’s smile was tight. “I’m sure you don’t.” She rose. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Emily. If you exhibit at Miss Tate’s ball, please send me word. Otherwise, I wish you luck in your marriage. You need not escort me, Lord Robert. I have other calls to make.”

No doubt to spread her joy. Emily could only manage a nod as the woman left.

Lord Robert, standing and watching Lady St. Gregory leave, shook his head. “My, that did not go well.”

“No, it did not.” Emily slumped in her seat, feeling as if even her bones had wilted. Was she truly such a terrible artist? Had she never managed to create a piece that spoke to others?

Lord Robert came to sit beside her, his face soft and forlorn. “Now, now,” he said, reaching out to pat her hand. “Perhaps it is best to know the truth.”

Emily nodded miserably. “I suppose so. Yet I was so sure I was ready for the Royal Society.”

“It is all too easy to delude oneself when one cares as deeply as you do,” Lord Robert said. “But now that you know, you can follow a different path.”

Follow a different path? Stop painting? She could as easily stop breathing! She forced her bones to straighten, her head to rise. “No, I must keep trying. If my efforts are lacking, I must learn to do better.”

“How brave you are,” Lord Robert murmured. His finger grazed her cheek, and she felt as if he were tracing a pattern inside her. “Most people would surrender after such a set down.”

No, she would hear no word of giving up. “But I can’t. Don’t you see?” She waved a hand around at all her battle scenes, feeling as if she’d been forced to go to war as well. “This, these paintings, my art, it’s who I am, Robert. Fate made me the daughter of a duke, but in my heart, I’m an artist.”

He gathered her close, and Emily stiffened. What was he doing? But before she could demand an explanation, he rested his head against hers. “I know you’re an artist, Emily,” he murmured. “You’ve painted your likeness on my heart, and I am awed by its beauty.”

How could he of all people know exactly the right words to say at that moment? He was supposed to be a scoundrel! Yet she could not help the warmth that stole over her, the desire to hug him close and swear to renew the fight. His large hand came up to rub her back in lazy circles. The feeling was surprisingly pleasant.

She let her head fall to his shoulder as she sat cradled in his embrace. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps her work was enough. At the moment, she couldn’t remember why she’d wanted to join the Royal Society so badly.

What was she thinking? What was she doing?! Emily yanked herself out of his arms and stood on shaking legs. He gazed up at her, brows raised, eyes warm. He seemed to expect her to pledge her undying devotion.

And what was she to say? She knew where her devotion lay. The Royal Society was waiting, ready to recognize her as they had other accomplished artists among the aristocracy. Artists of the Royal Society were patronized by the queen and the royal princesses, the works admired far and wide. She would be the most fortunate of mortals if she were allowed to join them.

“Thank you for bringing Lady St. Gregory,” she told Lord Robert. “It was most kind of you. I’m sure you understand when I say you’ve given me much to think about.”

He rose, smile soft, as if he knew the storm that raged inside her. “Of course. But I shall see you the day after tomorrow, at our engagement dinner. We’ll be signing the settlement papers then.”

His tone was firm, and she knew she should agree. Once she signed those papers, she was as good as married. There’d be no crying off, not unless he
did
turn out to be something altogether horrid like a jewel thief or virgin smuggler. But at the moment, all Emily could give him was a nod. He seemed to accept that, for he offered her a bow and went to the door.

As soon as he was gone, Emily collapsed onto the nearest chair. Why was he being so nice? He’d forgotten to mourn his own father, dismissed the woman he loved with no more thought than he’d give the morning’s tepid tea. Why encourage
her
? Why help her? Could it be that Lord Robert felt something for her after all?

As it was, Emily’s feelings were as jumbled as an upset paint box. How wonderful to think someone cared as much about her painting as she did! How noble that he’d tried to find a compromise that allowed her to keep her dreams. How ridiculous that the best he could find to praise in her work was the nasty look on a horse’s face! How horrid that Lady St. Gregory of all people could see nothing more.

But Emily had to show her more! The ball was her last chance. Lady St. Gregory would never be convinced to return to the town house now. Emily had to create the perfect painting, a feast for the eyes, the epitome of beauty and grace, and all within the next four days!

Unfortunately, for any of that to happen, she must also prove Lord Robert Townsend a criminal, once and for all. She just hoped he really was a criminal and not simply out to steal her heart.

16

La Petite Four began their quest the next morning, but they had to wait an inordinate amount of time for Lord Robert to get up. Emily finally sighted him through the crack in the shutters on Priscilla’s carriage window, as the coach stood parked just down the square from the Townsends.

“He’s coming out the door,” she said to the others seated around her.

As Daphne smothered a squeal, Priscilla rapped on the wooden panel above their heads. A moment later, the panel was slid aside, and the florid face of her family coachman appeared.

“You know what to do, Mr. Wells,” Priscilla said.

“Yes, miss.” He shut the panel; the coach moved forward.

“What will we do if he notices us?” Ariadne whispered as if Lord Robert were standing just outside the door.

“He
won’t
,” Emily predicted. “How many brown carriages are there in London with unremarkable horses?” She glanced at Priscilla. “Sorry, Pris. You know what I mean.”

“That’s the first time,” Priscilla replied with a grin, “I’ve ever considered it a blessing.”

It was a considerable blessing. The way Lord Robert felt about carriages, he would have easily recognized His Grace’s with its ducal arms emblazoned on the door. He would certainly have noticed the pair of perfectly matched black horses Daphne and Ariadne’s father used to pull their carriage. Priscilla’s rather drab equipage blended right in. And it wasn’t a tilbury.

Emily was also grateful that the Tates had been persuaded to let La Petite Four go for a drive together, without Mary or any other companionship other than Mr. Wells. Priscilla had convinced her parents that Lady Emily was pining away inside her house all alone and wanted to see more of the grand city. No one would get out, chase gentlemen about London, or in any other way contribute to a scandal.

At least, not yet. Thank goodness Priscilla’s coachman was up for a lark and impressed enough by His Grace’s title to do their bidding. Daphne, unfortunately, was less willing.