Art and Artifice (16 page)

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. “I assure you I
care passionately about the scenes I paint.”

“No doubt,” Lady St. Gregory said.

Why had she 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.

“Perhaps if I saw some variability,” the
gatekeeper to the artistic world continued. “Some emotionality. Do
you expect to finish anything else soon?”

The
War of the Roses
was still
languishing upstairs, but she could not think it any more
emotional. What was this insistence on emotion anyway?

“I have been busy,” Emily admitted, carefully
omitting the reason. She couldn’t very well admit to spying on her
betrothed when he was sitting smiling so charmingly a few feet from
her.

“Ah, yes,” Lady St. Gregory said with a nod. “Lord
Robert mentioned you were helping Miss Tate plan her come out ball.
A shame you cannot attend.”

Emily’s smile was tight. “Whatever makes you say
that? I assure you I will be there. I might even bring a painting
to display.” She glanced at Lord Robert, daring him to contradict
her.

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 it is unlikely she
will be attending, I thought 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 deception? What would it profit
him?

“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. Besides, she didn’t need
a 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. “Very
likely not.” 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 stood and watched Lady St.
Gregory leave, then shook his head. “My, that did not go well.”

“No, it did not.” She 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. “Now,
now,” he said, reaching out to pat her hand. “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 assured her. “But now
that you know, you can go on to other things.”

Go on? Stop painting? She could as easily
stop breathing! She forced her bones to straighten, her head to
rise. “No, I must keep trying. If these are lacking, I must learn
to do better.”

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

“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. It 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 were a bunch of stuffy old
artists for a touch as warm as this?

What was she thinking? What was she doing?!
She yanked herself out of his arms and stood on shaking legs. He
gazed up at her, brows raised, eyes soft. 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 gentle, 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. But at the moment,
all she 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 she knew he was gone, she
collapsed onto the nearest chair. Why was he being so nice? He’d
forgotten to mourn his own father, banished the woman he claimed to
love from his feelings with no more thought than he’d give the
morning’s tepid tea. Why encourage her? Why help her? Could it be
Lord Robert felt something for her after all?

As it was, her 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
Emily’s last chance. Lady St. Gregory would never be convinced to
return to the townhouse now. Emily had to create the perfect
painting, a feast for the eyes, the epitome of beauty and grace,
and all within the next six days!

Unfortunately, for any of that to happen, she
must also prove Lord Robert a criminal, once and for all. And that
meant following him now.

She just hoped he truly was a criminal and
not simply out to steal her heart.

“You will drop me at the corner of Bond
Street and Picadilly,” Lady Minerva ordered as Priscilla’s family
coach set off from the Courdebas household. Emily had dispatched a
note immediately to Priscilla, who had come for her, and now
Ariadne and Daphne squished themselves in beside her across from
Emily and her aunt, who had insisted upon chaperoning.

“And you will return for me in exactly two
hours,” she continued now, peering down her long nose at all four
girls in turn. “Or I shall carry tales to your parents. Do I make
myself clear?”

Emily and Priscilla exchanged glances. Two
hours was a woefully short time in which to stalk Lord Robert,
particularly when Emily wasn’t sure where he’d gone after leaving
her.

“We’ll return the carriage to Priscilla’s
parents by dinner,” Emily countered, “and you can take a hack
home.”

Daphne’s eyes widened as if Lord Snedley
would never approve of bargaining with a family member. Ariadne,
pencil already in hand, noted something in her journal.

Lady Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay for
the hack, then. And a new bonnet.”

“What!” Priscilla cried.

Emily knew better than to argue. “Done,” she
agreed. She pulled some coins from her reticule and handed them to
her aunt. Lady Minerva bit one as if to make sure it was really
gold, then nodded.

“Our usual arrangement,” she reminded Emily
as the groom helped her alight. By that Emily knew she would
disavow all knowledge if they were caught.

“She really is a terrible creature,”
Priscilla complained as the coach set off down Bond Street.

Emily shrugged. “We understand each other.
Sometimes it worries me that we think so much alike. Now, how do we
think like Lord Robert?”

Priscilla waved a hand. “Quite easily.
Gentlemen have a limited sphere of interests, if you ask me. Most
likely he is a creature of habit. Try Gentleman Jackson’s.”

Emily could not argue there either, so
Priscilla directed Mr. Wells, their coachman, up the street, and
they waited outside the famed pugilist’s academy. A number of
fellows entered and exited, and Emily had begun to think Priscilla
was wrong for once when she sighted a familiar russet head.

“He’s coming out the door,” she said to the
others as she squinted through the crack in the shutters on the
carriage window.

As Daphne smothered a squeal, Priscilla
rapped on the 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, and the coach
moved forward.

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

“He won’t notice us,” Emily predicted. “How
many brown carriages are there in London with unremarkable
horses?”

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

It was a considerable blessing. The way Lord
Robert felt about carriages, he would have recognized His Grace’s
carriage 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.

Safely anonymous, Emily watched Lord Robert
as he strolled down Bond Street. He walked with an insolent
saunter, as if assured he owned the world. But instead of turning
for the jeweler’s this time, he crossed Piccadilly and veered
toward St. James’s.

“I will not follow him on foot,” Daphne
warned, sitting back on the worn leather seats and crossing her
arms over the black satin edging on her yellow short jacket. “Lord
Snedley says that St. James’s is the hunting grounds of the
gentleman about town. I refuse to be the prey. Especially not after
what happened last time, with the canine.”

Ariadne toyed with the silk fringe on her
shawl. “I think Lord Snedley simply meant that a number of
gentleman might be found on St. James’s. That’s where White’s is,
you know.”

And that’s where Lord Robert was heading, it
turned out. They all took turns peering through the shutters at the
famous gentleman’s club as Robert approached it. The neat white
building with its black shutters boasted a bow window overlooking
the street.

“I’ve read that Beau Brummel and his friends
sit there and comment on the ladies passing,” Ariadne confided.

“And you cannot tell me,” Priscilla said,
“that the ladies don’t know it.”

“What do you think he’d say about us?” Daphne
asked.

Emily wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the
most notorious fashion arbiter of their time would say about her.
She’d heard he’d once required a gentleman to change his cravat
fifty-seven times before the Beau was satisfied with the tie of the
neck cloth. She was glad they were hidden inside Priscilla’s
carriage.