Art and Artifice (15 page)

But Lady Emily Southwell would not. She had
far more important things to paint. Of course, he could not say
that to the magistrate. Should his admiration for the lady become
known, his superior would have even more reason to believe Jamie
was out for Lord Robert’s head.

“And Lavinia Haversham?” he pressed. “Are we
to ignore her death as well?”

The magistrate brought his hand down hard on
Jamie’s case notes. “That was a tragic accident, Cropper. It has no
bearing on this matter. And as Lady Minerva appears to have
discharged you, I have no choice but to call this case closed.”

“Wait!” Jamie darted forward. Though neither
Emily nor the magistrate could appreciate it, those notes, these
thefts, were all that stood between her and danger. He couldn’t
leave the matter be. His superior eyed him, skepticism written in
every line of his face.

Jamie stood taller. “Lady Minerva may have
discharged me, but that doesn’t change the fact that her pearls are
missing. She is the sister of the Duke of Emerson. Surely he would
expect us to carry through on our promise to discover the
culprit.”

He counted the seconds, willed his superior
to agree. He could not leave Emily to Lord Robert’s heinous
care.

The magistrate nodded. “Very well, Mr.
Cropper. I will give you another week. If you cannot locate Lady
Minerva’s pearls in that time, you will be assigned to a different
case. And if I hear another word about Lord Robert Townsend’s
involvement, it will mean your position.”

* * *

Emily was quite glad Priscilla, Daphne, and
Ariadne had scheduled fittings for their ball gowns the next
morning, for it gave the four of them an excuse to meet and discuss
Acantha’s strange tale. Of course, Emily was not being fitted.
Everyone including her father thought she was still to be
married.

She’d tried broaching the matter to His Grace
the previous evening. He’d been home and in his study for all of a
quarter of an hour before changing for dinner with the Home
Secretary.

“I am hearing distressing rumors about Lord
Robert,” she had tried when her father noticed her standing in the
doorway and asked her what was wrong.

His smile was kind. “I imagine any young man
of Lord Robert’s expectations engenders some amount of envious
gossip.”

Emily moved closer to where he stood behind
the massive, claw-foot desk. Parchment was neatly stacked here and
there across the polished top, and he seemed to be taking a moment
to study each piece before laying it back down again.

“I explained to him my passion for painting,”
she told His Grace. “He did not seem encouraging.”

He frowned, but she could not tell whether it
was from concern over what she’d said or concern over what was on
the paper in his hand. He did not look up. “Lord Robert is under a
great deal of pressure from his family. I imagine that’s what’s
driving his desire to marry so quickly.”

Emily bent her head to try to peer up under
his gaze. “Could you not persuade them to wait?”

He sighed and let the paper fall. “I would
prefer to proceed, Emily Rose. These are trying times. We thought
the threat to England vanquished, yet he manages to raise an Army
and rally France into a furor once more.”

He, Napoleon. That’s what was keeping her
father so busy. He had important duties, for the Crown, for
England.

His Grace looked up and met her gaze, brown
eyes solemn. “I want you safely settled, Emily. Your mother and I
both wanted this match. I know she’d be very proud of you.”

Emily had nodded and left. Truly, what else
could she do? She had no proof Lord Robert was a jewel thief, had
no other fault to lay at his door. And it wasn’t as if she could
appeal to her mother for help. The very idea just made her feel
hot, angry, ready to throw something.

But that wouldn’t have helped matters
either.

Now she stood at the back of Madam
Levasard’s, watching as Priscilla and Daphne took turns on the
raised platform so that the seamstresses could tuck and pin and
stitch them into their gowns. The shop was light and airy, with
bolts of fine fabric clustered along the walls, lace dripping from
wooden wheels, and fine feathers waving from drying racks.
Half-finished gowns hung here and there, whispering of
magnificence. The air smelled of crisp cotton and the chamomile tea
that Madam was so fond of serving. Indeed, Lady Minerva, Mrs. Tate,
and Daphne and Ariadne’s mother, Lady Rollings, were already seated
by the front window with steaming cups in front of them, waiting to
critique the final gowns.

“So who exactly is Lavinia Haversham?” Daphne
asked as if she had not been able to follow the explanations
Priscilla and Emily had attempted to give her and Ariadne. She was
taking her turn on the platform, a seamstress kneeling at her feet
to let out the hem of the dazzling white gown.

“That wealthy merchant’s daughter who dallied
with Lord Robert,” Ariadne offered, thumbing through some sketches
Madam had drawn and pausing on one of a daring green gown with a
sigh. “Though I would have made her a princess, mind you, with a
name like Scheherazade or Alamahari.”

“She was not a member of Good Society,”
Priscilla explained, eyeing the delphinium blue fabric that had
draped her only moments before, “but her father hoped to buy her
way into the Beau Monde with a titled husband. That should not have
been difficult. Acantha related that Miss Haversham was beautiful,
gracious, and kind. If she hadn’t slipped in her bedchamber, struck
her head on the corner of her dressing table, and expired, Lord
Robert might well have defied his family and married her.”

“Perhaps not,” Daphne put in hopefully.
“Perhaps he realized that Lady Emily had always been his one true
love.” She gave Emily a look out of the corners of her eyes.

Certainly Lord Robert wanted Emily to think
that. She still couldn’t make herself believe it. “Perhaps pigs
might fly,” she replied.

Priscilla nodded. “His behavior is shameful.
It’s as if he simply forgot all about Miss Haversham and went
happily on with his life. Doesn’t the poor girl deserve
better?”

Ariadne and Daphne were nodding as well.
Emily could not look at them. She gazed down at her gloved fingers,
so tightly entwined in front of her that she could feel all her
bones.

“Sometimes,” she said, “it’s easier to
forget, to pretend you never knew the person you loved.”

Someone, likely Daphne, sucked in a breath.
Emily managed to look up. They were all regarding her as if she
were made of fine crystal, and if they touched her, she might
break. Even the seamstress paused to stare at her.

“I simply meant,” she said, wanting to hide
under the little wire-backed chair, “that there might be a reason
for him rushing to marry me, why he doesn’t speak much of her.”

“I suppose his heart may be broken,” Daphne
conceded. Then she turned so the seamstress could work on her
graceful train.

Priscilla shook her head. “I’m not willing to
agree that he has a heart. Acantha said Miss Haversham’s family has
retired to the country for the remainder of the Season to mourn.
Should he not mourn as well?”

It did seem rather heartless. Was this all
some game to him? Would he treat Emily the same way? Was he
pretending to court her, only to dash her hopes at the last second?
If so, he was toying with the wrong person. One did not abandon the
daughter of a duke!

“I can’t understand him,” Emily said. “As
much as it pains me to admit, however, this sad tale doesn’t help
us in the slightest.”

“Surely His Grace would be moved by it,”
Daphne protested, scooping up her train. The seamstress rose, held
out her hand, and helped Daphne off the platform to go show her
mother.

“Very likely he would find it tragic,” Emily
replied as they passed. “However, while it does not reflect well on
Lord Robert, we have nothing to lay at his door except extremely
shallow feelings, especially as we now question his career as a
jewel thief.”

“Just because Acantha found her hideous
necklace doesn’t mean he didn’t steal Lady Minerva’s pearls,”
Ariadne protested as if she was loathe to see a good plot
discredited. “And he could very well have stolen something from
Lady Skelcroft.”

Emily started. Was that what Jamie had picked
up on the floor of the marchioness’s bedchamber that night? Had
Lady Skelcroft sent for Bow Street about a missing jewel only to
find that she had misplaced her bauble as well? “I don’t know what
to think,” she admitted to her friends.

“Then what are we to do?” Priscilla
exclaimed. “You cannot give up! We could never be happy knowing you
were consigned to that shallow fellow! And what of your painting?
If nothing else, think of the Ball, Emily–roses, fairies,
goldfish!”

“Perhaps you could just tell Lord Robert you
wish to attend above all things,” Ariadne suggested, rummaging
through the rose-colored folds of her reticule.

“I told him so yesterday,” Emily replied. “He
said he would simply have to make me a better offer.”

“I knew it,” Ariadne said, head rising and
eyes lighting. “He
is
smuggling virgins!”

“I read a tract on it,” Daphne agreed,
returning to them. “They were handed out at Hatchards Lending
Library.”

“Next time,” Priscilla advised, with a smile
and a shake of her head, “go into the library instead of loitering
out front to see the gentlemen passing. Lord Robert is definitely
not smuggling virgins.”

“I don’t see why not,” Ariadne said with a
sniff. “He has the connections, and what virgin would deny him
anything?” She blushed furiously.

“I don’t think Lord Robert smuggles young
ladies of quality, or anything else,” Emily said.

“I still say he’s up to something,” Ariadne
insisted. She pulled a smaller sack from her reticule and set it
down on the sketch of the green gown.

“I agree,” Emily said. “But what?”

“Perhaps you should discuss the matter with
His Grace,” Daphne suggested. “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 has the
right of it. 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 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!”

As if Lord Robert knew they were determined
to thwart him, he called on Emily the next morning. Indeed, she
hadn’t planned to follow him nearly so early, as she’d thought he
wouldn’t rise before noon. Certainly Lady Minerva was still abed
and not likely to attend them, which meant this was Emily’s chance
to quiz him! Immediately she began preparing strategies. But then
she learned he’d brought an acquaintance.

“Lady St. Gregory,” Warburton intoned as he
ushered the lady and Lord Robert into the sitting room.

There she stood, the one person Emily most
longed to meet. Emily could scarcely breathe with the enormity of
it. A shame she didn’t look like a serious artist. Today of all
days she’d donned her least favorite gown, a pink one with a
hideous row of triple ruffles around the hem. Her father had had it
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 ten
years Emily’s senior. Her glossy black hair was swept back from a
high-cheek-boned 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.

“I’m so glad you could find time to visit,”
Emily told her. “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 the head
mistress of the Barnsley School 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 the hem of
her blue skirts, 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.”