La Petite Four (6 page)

“The fellow with the common coat?” Priscilla asked.

“The mysterious stranger with the muscular build?” Ariadne added.

“The gentleman standing in the Terpsichorean Slouch that Lord Snedley favors?” Daphne put in.

“Yes!” Emily whispered. “His name is James Cropper. He was at Barnsley, and he tried to see His Grace last night.”

Daphne gasped. “Is he following you?”

Emily shook her head. “I thought so at first, but I can see no reason for it. Still, he may know where Lord Robert has gone, and I intend to find out.”

She reached for the door handle, but Ariadne caught her arm. “You can’t go out there!”

Emily started to protest, but Priscilla was nodding, her lovely face solemn.

“She’s quite right, Emily. You’re betrothed and shouldn’t be seen with another man.” She turned to Daphne. “You go.”

Daphne stared at them all, her blue eyes narrowed. “Why do you always ask me to do such things? Priscilla never dashes through the bushes; she knows better than to ruin her gown. And Ariadne never peeks around corners or hides behind horses.”

Ariadne shrugged. “I know what happens at that end of the beast.”

“So do I,” Daphne declared, nose in the air. “And I am
trying
to be a lady. What gentleman wants to marry a girl with more dash and skill than he has?”

Emily couldn’t wait for them to decide. “There, he’s ducked deeper into the shadows. We’ll lose him!” She turned the brass handle, clambered from the coach, and waved to Mr. Phillips to wait.

Daphne climbed down behind her. “Oh, very well,” Emily heard her mutter as Daphne caught up. “I’ll come along, but only to give you a proper chaperone.”

They hurried across the street. Emily peered around the bushes at the edge of the park and over the top of shrubs. Where had he gone? What was she to do, drag Daphne through the undergrowth in search of him?

Daphne apparently had other ideas. She linked her arm in Emily’s.

“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said in an unusually loud voice, pulling Emily along the pebbled path lined with daffodils that led deeper into the park. “I’m so glad you insisted upon it.”

What on earth was wrong with her? Had she gone as mad as Priscilla’s aunt? As if Daphne knew Emily’s thoughts by the frown, she offered her a broad wink and waited expectantly.

Oh, of course! She was using subterfuge. Rather wise, actually. Whether Daphne liked it or not, there truly was a reason they asked her to do things like this.

“Ah, yes,” Emily said, though she could not manage quite so bright a tone. “A lovely day. Shall we stroll?”

“I’d be delighted.” Daphne continued at a leisurely pace across the park. Her eyes were narrowed, gaze darting about, as if she could see through the greening shrubbery. Daphne’s sky blue gaze had held the same look when she and Emily had joined His Grace for a fox hunt. She had watched, carefully, from horseback as the hounds coursed across the fields, like streams rushing in the spring. It was easy to spot the moment when they all coalesced, caught the scent, and took off in pursuit.

“He’s just gone to ground,” Daphne whispered to Emily. “But we shall catch him.”

Emily kept the smile on her face. “Do you see him?” she whispered back.

“Not at the moment . . . wait! To your right, behind that laurel shrub.”

Something was indeed moving there, and Emily fancied she caught a glimpse of russet hair. Excitement coursed through her, sharp and bold, and she could feel Daphne’s grip tighten on her arm. Their footsteps quickened.

“You could not ask for a finer day,” Emily said as they closed in on him. She hoped Daphne was the only one who heard the tension in the tone.

“Unseasonably warm,” Daphne agreed, keeping an eye on their quarry. He seemed to have crouched down, as if to spy on them. The bushes rustled with his movement.

Emily froze, heart pounding. What would he do, knowing he’d been caught? What would he say? Her fingers went to the curls at the side of her straw bonnet as if they needed some anchor.

Or wanted her to primp.

“Say something,” Daphne hissed. “You’re so brave. Confront him.”

Emily knew she should. She was the daughter of the duke, after all. She should stand tall, demand that he come out, order the thief to explain himself. She’d had no trouble telling Lord Robert how she felt in the withdrawing room that morning. Why couldn’t she open her mouth now?

The bushes rustled again, more forcefully this time, and Emily took a step back. Her fingers clutched Daphne’s arm so tightly, she thought she might break Daphne’s bones. Daphne was just as frozen.

“I cannot recall Lord Snedley discussing the finer points of stalking a gentleman through the park,” she whispered to Emily. “What shall we do?”

Something large and powerful shifted its weight, and Emily sucked in a breath. Eyes wide, Daphne removed Emily’s fingers from her arm and dropped a curtsy.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said to the bush. “Have we met?”

Emily stared at her.

Mr. Cropper was not nearly so civil. He growled! Emily took another step back in alarm, pulling Daphne with her. The bushes were shoved aside, and before Emily could cry out, a furry body launched itself at them. The creature hit Daphne in the chest, tearing her away from Emily as Daphne careened backward to land on her rump in the dirt of the path.

Emily rushed to her rescue, but it was too late. Daphne surrendered herself to a very wet kiss.

“Down!” she commanded, and the Airedale obediently climbed off her and lay down at her side. An elderly footman who had obviously been taking the dog for a walk hurried up, red-faced.

“I’m so sorry, miss. He slipped the leash. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Daphne said, accepting his hand to allow her to rise. “Dogs love me. A shame I can’t say the same about the gentlemen.”

Emily shook her head. Her hand was on her chest, and she felt her heart still pounding its wild beat. Glancing around, she saw no sign of the mysterious Mr. Cropper.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t catch him, or Lord Robert, the next time. It seemed they needed more cunning to catch the fox in the eight short days left to them.

The next step in their investigation, according to Ariadne, was to interview Lord Robert’s servants. Emily didn’t have much hope there, as she hadn’t even been let into the Townsend town house. Besides, there was a question of loyalty.

No, it would be better to question someone well-versed in the ways of society, someone who had the ear of servants and aristocracy alike, someone she trusted.

In a word, Warburton.

7

“Have you heard any rumors about the Townsends?” Emily asked her butler that evening as Warburton served her dinner on a silver tray in the quiet of her room. His Grace had been called to dine with the prime minister, and Emily abhorred sitting alone in the elegant dining room, eating at one end of the big empty damask-draped table.

Warburton seemed to sense her discomfort, for he went out of his way to place a tasseled pillow at her back where she sat on a black-and-white-striped satin chair near the cozy fire and to set a black satin footstool with gold fringe at her feet. His brows drew together as he straightened from placing a damask napkin across her lap.

“Rumors about the Townsends?” he responded at last, picking up the book she had been reading before he entered and gazing at the spine as if he was fascinated by the topic of a young lady’s adventure in a cursed castle. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, your ladyship.”

She took the book from his hands and laid it aside, refusing to let him get away so easily. “Couldn’t say or won’t? If you will not tell me, Mr. Warburton, I will imagine the worst.” Her silver fork flashed as she picked it up. “Does Lord Robert beat his servants?”

Warburton drew himself up. “Certainly not. You must remember—they serve his brother, and the present Lord Wakenoak would not countenance such behavior toward the staff, even though he has been a bit lax in paying them.”

Emily selected a piece of choice lamb and chewed slowly. So Lord Robert’s brother stiffed the staff. Reprehensible, but nothing she could lay at Robert’s door. Unless their lack of funds had something to do with his behavior. She swallowed and cocked her head. “I fear Lord Robert gambles.”

“Likely less than his father before him.”

That was most unhelpful. She had no idea how much the former Lord Wakenoak had enjoyed the cards.

“Did his father gamble a great deal?”

“Perhaps more than is generally considered wise.”

Interesting
, she thought, using her fork to toy with her dilled carrots. Too bad Warburton’s tidbit offered her nothing in her quest to discredit Lord Robert. She eyed her butler as he towered over her. “Does Lord Robert keep a mistress?”

Warburton met her gaze by looking down his impressive nose. “That is not a conversation His Grace would want me to have with you.”

Her cheeks heated. He was quite right; it was a bold question. “But it is a conversation I must have,” she protested, wiggling on the satin seat, “if I am to understand Lord Robert.”

“Then I suspect it is a conversation you should have with Lord Robert.”

He had a point. How would Robert react if she mentioned the matter? She pictured his stunned look and grinned.

Of course, he could be no more stunned than Mary was when Emily began the same conversation with her maid later that night before bed.

Mary was dark-haired and darker-eyed and a little on the pale side, or perhaps Emily just terrified her. Mr. Phillips had confided that Mary had been His Grace’s upstairs maid in London until she agreed to take on extra duties while Emily was there. His Grace didn’t apparently see the need to hire Emily her own maid even though she was out of school. She could only hope that was not because he thought she was going to marry soon, and then it would be up to Lord Robert to see to all her needs.

“Rumors?” Mary said, fair skin turning even paler.

Perhaps if she didn’t look directly at the woman, Mary would be less nervous. Emily turned to let the maid unlace her quilted cotton corset. “Yes, rumors, stories. Gossip.”

“Well,” Mary said, busily pulling the cord through the holes in the back of the undergarment, “everyone seems quite glad Lord Robert has chosen to settle down.”

“Settle down from what?” Emily asked with a frown.

Mary’s fingers seemed to slow. “Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t say, your ladyship.”

Not her too. This would never do! “It’s quite all right to speak freely, Mary,” she said as gently as she could. “I won’t scold, I promise.”

Mary sighed as she finished with the corset and pulled it off, her breath brushing Emily’s bare shoulder. “It’s just that I want to do a good job for you, your ladyship. Being a lady’s maid has always been my dream.”

“I understand having a dream,” Emily said, turning to face her once again. “Lord Robert is currently threatening mine. So, please, tell me if you know. Why did he have to settle down?”

Mary clutched the corset to her chest and lowered her voice, as if afraid the silk-covered walls might overhear. “He was a wild fellow, your ladyship. The other servants were talking about how he had a girl in every village around the family’s country estate. Even dallied with a merchant’s daughter here in town and a married lady.”

Oh, the cad! Hadn’t she said he was up to no good? Emily could feel herself blushing just thinking about it.

Mary must have noticed that Emily had reddened, for the maid hurried to fetch her robe.

“Now, don’t you worry, your ladyship,” she said, draping the quilted satin around Emily’s shoulders. “He chose you, didn’t he? That proves he intends to do right.”

Perhaps. But it might also prove that he’d simply bowed to pressure from his family. What better way to turn respectable than to marry the daughter of an old family friend, particularly when she was the daughter of a duke? There was
nothing
more respectable than marrying the daughter of a duke. Yet why the hurry? Just how tame was Lord Robert Townsend now?

The thought kept Emily up late into the night. Unfortunately, Mary had handed her nothing she could use. Obviously His Grace knew all about Lord Robert’s reformation. He’d said he and Robert’s brother had only been waiting for Robert to change before announcing the wedding plans. So she still had nothing she could tell her father that would change his mind and save the ball.

And it wasn’t as if she cared who Robert had dallied with. She certainly didn’t want him to fall in love with her! But she’d thought, she’d
hoped
, that the man she married would see more in her than merely her father’s consequence and good name. Was it not possible that someone might enjoy her company, appreciate her art, want to be with her simply for herself ?

She finally rose, pulled on her painting smock, and went to her easel. She was itching to start another battle scene. She could just imagine all those feudal fighters in the colors of Lancaster and York. At least their roses weren’t pink.

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 all men if she wore nothing but that color. Pink, he seemed to think, was singularly feminine.

It was simply not her.

Candlelight flickering around the room, she set up the larger of the two seasoned canvases that Miss Alexander had sent with her to London and stood staring at the creamy surface before sketching out the basic scene. 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. She set to work laying it all out.

But she could not seem to concentrate on her painting either. She kept looking at the soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish their mothers were close by, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?