La Petite Four (3 page)

Emily couldn’t help the warmth that flooded her when she saw Warburton waiting for her. The butler had been with His Grace as long as she could remember, and his hair had been white nearly that long. When she was younger, she used to think that one day she’d grow tall enough to look him straight in his bright blue eyes. She’d long since resigned herself to the fact that that was never going to happen. No one was quite as tall as Warburton.

“Welcome home, your ladyship,” he intoned, his usual calm self in the face of the bustle around him. The footmen hurried past to fetch in the rest of her belongings. “His Grace was delayed in Whitehall, but he hopes to join you for dinner.”

She almost crumpled at his feet in relief. Dinner with her father was just the opening she needed to discuss this business of Lord Robert. Surely His Grace could be made to see reason. She would never want to disappoint him, but he knew how much she longed to join the Royal Society.

“Just see that you do not let Lord Robert Townsend near him,” she told Warburton and went upstairs to change.

It was easy to guess which bedchamber was hers down the thickly carpeted hall. She merely had to follow the footmen carrying her things. As she paused in the doorway, she found herself rather pleased. The room was done in a Oriental theme, the walls adorned in painted silk showing white and black birds with tall crowns and long tails. The mahogany woodwork was trimmed in gold, and gold highlighted the tall window, dressing room door, and the spindles and headboard of the four-poster bed. Another time she might have been tempted to stretch out, but not when His Grace would be home so soon.

She had to keep busy or she would go mad!

She was instructing one of the footmen on how to set up her easel in an unused bedchamber across the corridor when she finally heard the front door. She left the fellow to hurry downstairs. With His Grace months at the Congress of Vienna, all Emily’d had were letters. She wanted to spend time with her father, hear his stories, tell him hers. Surely a few moments of his company, on her first night in London, was not too much to ask.

But the wood-paneled study on the second floor was empty in the golden glow of candlelight, as was the stately dining room. The blue-and-gilt chairs of the withdrawing room waited expectantly. The other footmen had apparently retired to the kitchen to prepare for dinner, so she could not ask them where His Grace had gone. With a sigh, she went to check the sitting room, just in case her father might be entertaining a caller.

It was the most formal room she’d seen. Heavy red, brocaded drapes with gold-tasseled pulls covered the bow window, and red velvet chairs with clawed feet squatted before the fire’s glow. She sucked in a breath when she sighted a gentleman standing next to them, then puffed it out as he turned and she recognized him.

The young man from Barnsley stood there, his hair glowing like flames in the light of the fire. How could he have beaten her to London? And if he had, did that mean Lord Robert was here as well? “How did you get here?” she demanded.

He offered her his wicked smile. “And good evening to you as well, Lady Emily,” he said as he bowed.

Of course he knew her name. He’d obviously followed her. “Answer the question. How did you get here so quickly?”

He shrugged. “The mail coach moves quickly enough. And surely I’m not the first to seek an audience with His Grace.”

Not the first, but one of the first she’d seen kept waiting by himself. “Who let you in?” she asked suspiciously.

“A busy footman. I thought it best to keep out of the way.”

Emily gasped. “You sneaked in! Thief!” Small wonder his look had gone to her locket at Barnsley. Small wonder she hadn’t recognized him when they’d first met. She did not make a habit of associating with thieves.

“Oh, there are thieves in London, all right,” he agreed. 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 owned 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 town house.

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.

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

He glanced out the open door. Then, as if satisfied that no one would approach them, he looked up to
The Battle of Salamanca
. She’d chosen a scene well-described in the papers. General Wellington 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. She’d never met the great man, but she fancied he’d be rather pleased with the piece.

“I don’t know all that much about art,” the young man before her admitted. “But I’d say this fellow never experienced war.”

Emily stiffened. “Why? What did I . . . he get wrong?”

“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?”

He pointed to a fallen soldier. “Look here at this lad. 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 had to own that he did not. While he was painted in exquisite detail, his perfect face showed no emotion whatsoever.

And was that so very bad? Not everyone had to cry!

“The purpose of the painting is not to show the individual soldier’s feelings,” she said, fingers tightening on her locket. “The purpose of the painting is to depict history.”

He shrugged again. “There are books enough for that. Why bother painting it?”

“Why bother?” Emily sputtered, hand falling. “Sir, you have no sensibilities!”

Instead of taking offense, he merely laughed. Then he paused and nodded toward the door. “I’ve picked a poor time to visit, I see. You’ll want to speak to your father. He’s just come in.”

“He has?” Emily hurried to the door and glanced out. His Grace had indeed entered the front door and was handing his top hat and walking stick to Warburton. He saw her peering out and smiled as he approached.

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 gentleman in the sitting room was in trouble now. Emily turned with great pleasure to tell him so, only to find that he was gone, like smoke up a chimney, leaving the connecting door to the library ajar. Even as she stared in surprise, her father reached her.

“What a delightful homecoming,” he said. “Not even presented to society and already engaged 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 was so eager to tell me, he came to find me in Whitehall this afternoon. It seems he plans to marry immediately in Devonshire and sweep you off for a honeymoon. I am persuaded that he has grown into a fine young fellow. Congratulations, my dear. He’s exactly the sort of man your mother and I always dreamed you’d marry.”

3

“No, no, no!” Priscilla cried the moment she heard the news. “You cannot run away to Devonshire. I cannot have the ball without you!”

La Petite Four had assembled in the Southwell withdrawing room late the next morning, their gowns draped softly across the blue upholstery of the chairs. Warburton had brought in sweets and tea for their enjoyment, but no one seemed particularly interested in enjoying themselves.

“We must have the ball,” Ariadne was insisting, curls trembling on either side of her round face. “I’ve been practicing my witty conversation for weeks.”

“What could His Grace be thinking?” Daphne lamented. “It just isn’t done!” She pushed away the silver teapot as if she couldn’t stand the thought of drinking at such a moment.

“I quite agree,” Emily assured her. The idea still stunned her. Marriage? She’d only just graduated!

“I fail to see,” Priscilla said, green eyes narrowing dangerously, “how Lord Robert can pull together a wedding in eight days, unless you plan to elope to Scotland.”

Emily shuddered. “No, thank you. But then, I didn’t plan to get married either. How would I even find time to be fitted for a wedding gown?”

“Surely Lord Robert gave you some sign of his affections,” Ariadne said, reaching for a comfit Warburton had set out. “A lock of hair, a passionate letter.” She popped the chewy confection into her mouth as if she feared the sugar would dirty her soft pink gown.

“Not a word,” Emily said. “Though apparently His Grace had some inkling. He and Lord Robert’s brother, the new Lord Wakenoak, have been discussing marriage settlements for months. They simply weren’t sure Lord Robert wanted to settle down.”

Of course, they hadn’t asked her whether she wanted to settle down. Young ladies were supposed to desire marriage above all things. But this? Emily’d been so shocked by her father’s announcement that she’d even forgotten to ask Warburton about the mysterious gentleman in the library until this morning.

“A Mr. James Cropper,” her butler had said when she’d cornered him after breakfast. “He had a letter of introduction from a fine gentleman known to His Grace and wished to have words on a private matter, so it seemed appropriate to allow him to wait in the sitting room.”

How very odd. Did thieves have letters of introduction?

“If he should call again,” Emily had said, “I want you to find me straightaway.” She supposed Mr. Cropper had not come calling today, for she’d heard nothing more.

Now Priscilla rose to pace the room. Her hair was as bright as the gilt chairs, and her blue muslin day dress with its white lace collar looked like a pale copy of the Wedgwood blue wallpaper.

“Then all is not lost,” she declared. “We have only to convince Lord Robert that you must wait until after the ball. Think, Emily. What can we use against him?”

Emily raised her brows. “Against him? What do you plan, Pris, blackmail?”

Priscilla paused in her pacing. “If necessary.”

“Surely we can reason with him,” the ever logical Ariadne protested.

Emily could not feel so confident. Ever since her father had told her he agreed with Lord Robert’s plans last night, she’d felt squished, her bones pressed together, as if her body were trying to curl into a snail’s shell. She’d tried to protest, but her father had seemed so very happy about the entire matter that she couldn’t find it in herself to disappoint him. Having her friends here now made it easier to breathe, and to think.

“Perhaps this isn’t so horrid,” Priscilla said, coming to sit near Emily on one of the delicate little blue chairs. “Some people might even say you’re fortunate. With his family connections, Lord Robert is quite a catch.”

Possibly, but Emily wished she understood
why
she’d caught him. It wasn’t as if their lands marched side by side. His Grace’s estates were all entailed to Cousin Charles, and she brought only a small estate from her mother to the marriage. And if it were a duke’s consequence he craved, there must be other dukes with marriageable daughters. Why her?

“I still cannot like it,” Daphne said, shifting in her gilt chair across from Emily. The weak spring sun, trickling through the windows, made the green sprigs on her white muslin dress look like little tufts of grass. “Lord Snedley is most particular about the way engagements are to be announced, and sneaking behind people’s backs would not meet with his approval.”

“Well, it isn’t as if it were totally unexpected,” Emily hedged, crossing her ankles under her heavy skirts. The spruce-colored wool gown had completely suited her mood that morning. “His father and mine talked of uniting our families forever. They were great friends in school. But I cannot believe that’s all that motivates Lord Robert. When we were younger the only use he had for me was to torment me. He once snatched my riding crop and ordered me to kiss his boots before he’d give it back.

“You didn’t!” Daphne gasped.

“No,” Emily admitted. “I stomped on his instep. I was only thankful Mother noticed and put a stop to his wretched game. I only wish I knew what game he’s playing now.”

“It may not be a game,” Priscilla said, leaning closer. “Your father said Lord Robert wishes this marriage. So long as Lord Robert allows the ball, I’d go along with him. The engagement will put you in the best position. You can flirt, and no one can get peeved because they’ll all know you’re taken.”

“And you can eat whatever you like,” Ariadne added, “without fear that you won’t fit in your presentation gown.” She reached for another comfit, and Daphne nudged her hand away.

“You see?” Priscilla said. “Besides, everyone will want to congratulate you. As your dear friends, we’ll be quite popular.”

That was the one problem with Priscilla. She tended to think of her own needs first.

“But Priscilla,” Daphne protested, “how could we enjoy ourselves, knowing we’d consigned Lady Emily to a monster?”

“Having a beastly childhood does not make Lord Robert a monster,” Priscilla began when there was a cough at the door. Warburton met their gazes with a smile.

“Forgive the interruption, ladies, but the monster, that is Lord Robert, has come calling, and I wasn’t sure you wished to receive him.” He eyed the girls pointedly.