Art and Artifice (13 page)

“Allow me to see you out, Mr. Cropper,” the
butler said.

“I can find my own way, Mr. Warburton,” Jamie
replied. “But thank you.” He clapped his hat on his head and
started across the entry hall, boot heels loud against the black
and white marble tiles. He couldn’t wait to reach the front
door.

And then the footman opened it to admit Lady
Emily.

Jamie jerked to a stop even as she drew up
just inside the threshold.

“Mr. Cropper,” she said, and her cheeks
turned the lovely rosy color that so became her.

He gathered his emotions, shoved them down as
deep as he could, and inclined his head. “Your ladyship.”

Cool air brushed him as the footman closed
the door behind her. She was dressed in a fine gown and spencer his
mother would have reserved for church, striped in shades of gray
that made her hair look all the more alive and glossy. He found
himself simply gazing at her.

She cocked her head as if she wasn’t sure of
him. “Why are you here?”

Always to the point. She never resorted to
roundaboutation; he didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. If
she didn’t say them outright, her thoughts whispered on her face,
murmured from her eyes. He only wished he could be as forthright
with her.

“Your aunt can explain,” he said instead. “I
should go.”

Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself move as
she approached him.

* * *

Emily stopped a few feet from James Cropper.
Having happily left Lord Robert and his cryptic remarks at his
pretentious carriage, she could not help noticing the contrast
between the two men. Lord Robert had been completely confident both
in himself and all he planned, his prestige as loud as if he
shouted it from the rooftops. James was quieter, his brown coat and
trousers less showy, but the tall-ceilinged entry hall felt smaller
with him in it.

And she would never forget that smile. It
seemed to promise her something quite grand if she’d just forget
herself and . . . do what?

“Certainly I could ask my aunt,” she told
him. “But I would prefer that you explain your presence here. I
know it must have something to do with Lord Robert.”

He shrugged. “If it is, I couldn’t say.”

Emily puffed out a sigh. “If you tell me that
it is a matter between gentlemen I will likely scream.”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” he said, smile
inching higher. “But as you seem to expect me to behave in my
official role as an officer of the court, perhaps I should ask you
whether you’ve been behaving since we last met.”

He could be the most vexing man! Did he think
her an infant that he must watch over her? His Grace certainly
trusted her more than that. Even her aunt let her leave the house
unescorted on occasion!

“I assure you,” Emily replied with a toss of
her curls nearly as good as one of Priscilla’s, “I can take care of
myself.”

“Oh, aye.” She could hear the amusement in
his drawl. “You and your three friends were doing quite well when
we met on Bond Street the other day.”

He
would
bring that up. She made
herself gaze at the mirror on the far wall rather that at his smug
smile. “I already thanked you for that service, sir.”

“Indeed you did, though rather grudgingly, I
thought.” In the mirror, she saw him glance at the footman,
standing against the pale blue wall as straight as a statue in his
black livery. As if deciding the servant posed no problem, James
took a step closer as well. The scent of sandalwood drifted up,
whispering of warm summer nights in exotic places. Despite herself,
Emily turned her gaze to his, blinking as she tried to reconcile
the cologne with the man who wore it.

“Tell me you finally heeded my warning,” he
murmured, gaze on hers. “You’ve stayed away from the worst parts of
London, kept yourself from peeking into strange rooms?”

Those gray eyes were fathomless, like looking
up into the morning mist. “Yes,” she allowed. “Though I’d like to
think I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Oh, no,” he replied, smile widening once
more. “You’ve obviously outgrown the nursery.”

She wished she had a fan. Priscilla said it
was best used to rap insolent fellows across the knuckles. Emily
would have preferred to wave it frantically in front of her heated
face.

As if he sensed her discomfort, he
straightened away from her. “And what has your fiancé been up to
recently?”

The question should have been casual, simply
polite conversation, but Emily heard more behind it. He wasn’t sure
what Lord Robert was about. Well, neither was she. She did think,
however, that Mr. Cropper sounded just the wee bit vexed that she
might have spent time with his quarry.

“I just returned from an outing with him,”
she admitted. “I mentioned your name. He didn’t seem pleased to
have made your acquaintance.”

“No doubt,” he said. “The feeling is mutual,
I assure you.”

“Why?” she demanded. “You both are so sure I
should avoid the other, yet neither of you will explain.”

“Perhaps it’s not our place to tell,” he
said, but his gaze drifted upward, as if the chandelier was
suddenly much more fascinating.

Emily threw up her hands. “Can you say
nothing of any use to me?”

“Only that you look very fetching in that
gray gown.”

The gown felt entirely too warm and tight.
She shook her finger at him, forcing his gaze back down again.
“Charm will not save you, sir. I am immune to it. I swear that you
and Lord Robert are a pair of coxcombs, entirely too full of
yourselves to listen.”

He laughed, a deep chuckle she was certain
she’d find warming under other circumstances. “Well, I’ve been
accused of that often enough.” He touched two fingers to his brow.
“I’m sure you won’t mind if I say my goodbyes, then.”

Perhaps it was her outing with Lord Robert
still troubling her, perhaps she found Mr. Cropper’s company as
invigorating as it was frustrating, perhaps she was merely being
whimsical, but she didn’t want him to walk out the door. “Tell me
something before you go.”

He eyed her as if not trusting the direction
of her thoughts. “What would that be?”

She imitated the salute he’d given her. “Why
do you do this?”

He glanced down at his hand as if surprised
she’d noticed. “It’s an Irish gesture of respect.”

“Are you Irish, Mr. Cropper?”

He looked up and grinned. “Sure-n I learnt
the movement at me mother’s knee, yer laidyship. Me mam is right
proud of her Jamie, she is. Course the gesture gets a bit messy if
I’ve been eat-n bread and jam. Can’t figure how to keep them
strawberries out of me hair.”

Emily couldn’t help her laugh. “You’d better
stick with roasted chestnuts then. You could hide any sign of them
quite nicely.”

“So long as they didn’t singe me scalp.”

“Oh, you needn’t go so deep,” she assured
him. “You could put several of them right here, and no one would
know.” She wasn’t sure what possessed her, but she reached up to
touch the wave of hair over his forehead. The chestnut curl was
warm and silky.

The laughter faded from his eyes to be
replaced by an intensity that took her breath away. Emily let her
hand fall even as she heard the unmistakable sound of Warburton’s
cough from the sitting room door beside her.

“And you,” Jamie murmured softly, finger
coming up to stroke the curls beside her ear, “you’d best not hide
anything in that silk. It would slide right through.”

Emily couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Warburton seemed to have developed consumption, he coughed so
hard.

Jamie leaned closer, and for an insane moment
she thought he intended to kiss her. Even more insane was her
reaction. She closed her eyes and wished Warburton to
perdition.

“You’re a fine woman, Lady Emily Southwell,”
Jamie murmured, his breath a caress against her cheek. “You should
find yourself a fine man for a husband.”

Something brushed against her temple, so soft
she feared she had imagined it. It sent a tremor through her
nonetheless. She opened her eyes, but Jamie was already striding
for the door, which the footman was holding wide for him.

“Wait!” She took a step after him, to do
what, she wasn’t sure.

Jamie turned, and his smile was sad. “There’s
not much else can be said between us, my dear. But if you need me,
you have only to look.” He gave her his salute one last time and
left.

Emily stood in the middle of the entry hall,
feeling as if the space had grown cold without Jamie Cropper in it.
Would he let her be so familiar as to call him Jamie? Did she want
to ask?

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms,
the gown crinkling under her fingers. The footman regarded her as
if afraid Emily would turn into a goose and fly out the window.
Warburton came from the sitting room to regard her with more
concern, and she could see her aunt staring at her open
mouthed.

Emily felt just as bemused. Who was she to
behave like that? She wasn’t interested in courting; she was going
to spend her Season establishing herself as an artist. And if she
were interested in courting, she certainly shouldn’t be making eyes
at a fellow like James Cropper. One moment he was enforcing
protection where she didn’t need it, the next trying to steal a
kiss. One moment she wanted to shout at him, the next to kiss him
back. All while she was engaged to Lord Robert!

Did anyone on earth understand gentlemen?

“The first thing you must know about boys,”
Priscilla said, “is that they are all mad.”

Emily could easily believe that as she sat
across from Priscilla the next day in the withdrawing room of the
tiny house in a forgotten corner of Mayfair, the only house
Priscilla’s father had been able to afford. The little room was far
less opulent than any at His Grace’s townhouse. The furniture
looked as if it had been picked from a number of places and thrown
all together, with less than pleasing results. Still, Emily could
only consider it a refuge after the scolding she’d endured from her
aunt yesterday following Jamie’s exit.

“Your behavior is completely beyond the
pale,” Lady Minerva had insisted, pacing in front of Emily right
there in the entry hall, with Warburton standing along one wall and
the footman, who very much looked as if he wanted to cringe, along
the other. Even the movement of her aunt’s blue wool skirts had
sounded angry. “First running off with Lord Robert like
that...”

“Running off!” Emily protested. “It was a
scheduled outing, and you gave your blessing!”

Her aunt jerked up a finger. “Do not
interrupt me when I am speaking! I quite lose my place. Where was
I? Running off with Lord Robert . . . failing to comb your hair
when leaving Barnsley . . . not folding your napkin properly after
dinner last night . . .”

“Who knew I had such faults?” Emily said.

Her aunt glared her into silence. “And now
taking up with a street urchin of all people! You will be the death
of your poor sainted father!”

Emily took a deep breath, tried to keep her
tone measured, logical. “In the first place, I haven’t taken up
with anyone. In the second, I hardly think it appropriate to
compare a Bow Street Runner to a street urchin. And finally, my
father is hardly a saint. Saints, as I understand them, actually
care.”

She knew she’d gone too far, for her aunt
drew up her slender frame, one finger pointing imperiously toward
the stairs. “To your room, young lady. I cannot abide the sight of
you right now.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Emily replied, but
she marched up the stairs anyway.

But not to her room. It was lovely, it was
sophisticated, but it felt as if it belonged to another girl,
someone who preferred the social whirl, someone who obeyed without
questioning, someone her father and aunt expected her to be.

Someone she very much feared she would never
be.

Instead, she went to the studio, pulled on
her apron, and stirred up her paints. That wasn’t difficult, the
way her hands were shaking. She slammed her brush into the mixture
and stabbed at the canvas. She wanted blood, fire, shouting, the
clash of metal on metal. She wanted to lose herself in power,
might. She wanted good to triumph, evil to be vanquished, the world
set to rights once again. That’s what her paintings meant, even if
no one else ever noticed.

“Why do you persist in painting such ugly
things?” her aunt demanded from the doorway.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” Emily
countered. Then she took a deep breath, set her brush down
carefully. “Forgive me, Aunt. But I am not the woman you think me.
I prefer a dirge to a country reel, a Shakespearean drama to a
modern farce. I feel as if everyone is trying to force me into a
mold that I cannot fill.”

“Will not fill, you mean,” Lady Minerva said,
coming into the room and shutting the door. “And you are still
behaving like an idiot. I told you I would deny any involvement
with bad behavior on your part. You saw through my acting before.
Your faculties have not failed you. Why would I think you would
believe me now?”

Emily reached for her rag to clean the
scarlet from her fingers, hands still shaking. “Are you telling me
you staged all that?”

“What else? Your father expects me to honor
his wishes. He will not stomach me honoring yours above his. I must
put on a good face if I am to eat.” She wandered closer and
grimaced at Emily’s battle scene.

“My father would hardly starve you,” Emily
replied, setting down her rag.

“You didn’t seem so sure of that a few
minutes ago,” her aunt replied. She sucked her lower lip a moment,
then nodded. “This is rather good, in a dismal, disturbed sort of
way.”

Emily could not find it in her to thank Lady
Minera. “So am I in your good graces or not?”