Art and Artifice (18 page)

“You were the one I was following! I thought
you were Lord Robert. But what are you doing here? You can’t have
been following me.”

Was that hope he heard in her voice? Did she
want him to follow her?

“I spotted your friends on St. James’s this
morning,” he explained, “peering behind their hands, hiding in
doorways. When they ran to the carriage, I caught a glimpse of you
inside. I’m amazed Lord Robert didn’t see you. Did you learn
nothing the last few times? It’s not safe for you out like
this.”

With a rattle of tack and the clatter of
horses’ hooves, the drab little carriage that had brought her drew
up opposite the entrance to the alley.

“All right there, your ladyship?” the
coachman called. In the light of the lamp, Jamie could see his eyes
narrowed, his hand on the edge of the box, as if he meant to leap
off and come to her rescue.

“Fine, Mr. Wells,” Emily called back. She
waved a hand to keep him on the carriage, then lifted her head to
Jamie. “You were saying?”

Jamie shook his head at her confidence. “If I
meant to harm you, you’d have been dead before he got here.”

The air left her lungs in a rush. “Oh!”

He put a hand on her elbow to steady her.
“Now do you see the danger?”

“Lord Robert doesn’t want to kill me,” she
pointed out, but he felt a tremor go through her as if the night
had turned colder. “He wants to marry me. And that, I assure you,
is a far worse fate.”

“I can’t argue with that. A lady like you
deserves better.” Jamie nearly groaned as his words hung in the
air. What was he doing? This was no time to flirt. He had to send
her home, retrace his steps, and pick up Lord Robert’s trail again.
And all without the magistrate catching wind of his activities.

“Lady Emily?” Now one of her friends called,
sparing her an answer, and he thought he recognized the voice of
the younger Courdebas sister, the one who was forever reaching for
her pencil. “If he is in league with slavers, nod once.”

Emily threw up her hands and turned. “I said
I’m fine. It isn’t Lord Robert; it’s a friend. Give me a
moment.”

Jamie couldn’t keep the amusement from his
voice as she turned to him. “Slavers?”

She waved a hand. “Pay her no heed. I know
you don’t understand why I’m doing this, but suffice it to say that
I would like to prove that Lord Robert is an insufferable brute as
much as you apparently do.”

She couldn’t possibly share his motivation,
not from her privileged position. “As an officer of the court, I
can’t let you risk yourself like this.”

“My dear Mr. Cropper,” she said, voice sweet
and sharp at the same time, “do you have a choice?”

Very little. Had she been anyone else, he
might have dragged her off to Bow Street on charges of obstructing
justice, public endangerment. As it was, he could not see her
cooling her heels in the jail. Nor did he wish her to tell his
superior how he’d found her. He sighed. “I could tell His
Grace.”

He waited for her to denounce him as a bully
and a babblemouth. Him, a Bow Street Runner, resorting to carrying
tales!

Instead, she sighed as well. “I wish you
wouldn’t worry my father. He has enough on his mind.”

She sounded sincerely concerned. “Very well,”
he said, “but you’ll have to promise me you won’t follow Lord
Robert again.”

“I can’t make that promise,” she said, chin
rising. “I told you. I must learn his secret.”

Again he could only question her motivation.
He’d feared Lord Robert had hurt her, but she didn’t seem to fear
the fellow. If anything, her betrothed annoyed her beyond reason.
Of course, he’d always thought she was clever.

“You can’t just cry off?” he offered. “Tell
your family you don’t fancy the fellow after all?”

She snorted. “My father thinks the world of
Lord Robert. And my mother wanted this match.”

Her voice was laced with emotion. He knew her
mother was gone, but it seemed Lady Emily was determined to honor
her memory, even if it cost her.

“Your mother couldn’t have known the man Lord
Robert would become,” he reasoned. “Or the woman you would become.
What might have looked like a good match years ago could have
displeased her now.”

She cocked her head. “Do you think so?” Hope
clung to each syllable. Then she sighed. “I wish I could ask her.
As it is, my only hope is to find some evidence of wrongdoing so I
can expose Lord Robert before the ball.”

Jamie frowned. “A ball?”

“Yes. Lord Robert has forbidden me to attend
it.”

He stared at her, a slender shadow beside
him. He could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re risking your
reputation, maybe even your life, for a ball? Are you mad?”

* * *

Gentlemen did not speak to ladies that way.
Priscilla would have tossed her head, told him it was none of his
affair, threatened him with being forever in her bad graces, but
Emily found she could not be so stern. Anyone else looking at her
actions would probably have wondered the same thing. At the moment,
she was beginning to think she ran a little mad.

“How can I make you understand?” she asked.
“It’s not the ball, though that is important. It’s my life, my
future, my hopes and dreams. For as long as I can remember I’ve
wanted to be an artist. The things I see, the things I feel, they
come out through the brush, much better than I can express them in
any other way.”

He was quiet a moment, as if choosing his
words with care. “And Lord Robert doesn’t value your art?”

She couldn’t help the sigh. “No one values my
art. But that could all change if I could just be admitted to the
Royal Society for the Beaux Arts! I have a chance to exhibit a
painting at the ball, to prove to the patroness, Lady St. Gregory,
that I truly am an artist. And Lord Robert insists that we marry
and leave London days before!”

She felt the change in him, the shift of
weight from one foot to the other. He leaned closer, and she caught
the scent of sandalwood. “Lord Robert is rushing this marriage so
he can leave London?”

She hadn’t thought of it that way. “He says
he wants to marry quickly to honor his late father’s wishes. Do you
see some other reason for the hurry?”

He leaned back. “Do you?”

Did she? The puzzle was starting to come
together, the picture growing clearer even in the darkness of the
rank alley.

“Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “Lord Robert
might have reason to run if he was a jewel thief and felt a certain
Bow Street Runner with one hand on his coattails.”

He sucked in a breath. “Interesting theory,
your ladyship. But have you any proof?”

“If either of us had proof,” she countered,
“I doubt we’d be standing here now.”

She counted off the seconds, waiting for him
to discredit the idea, to call her mad once more. Behind her, the
horses muttered in the traces, and she heard Mr. Wells murmuring to
them that they’d soon be in their beds.

“He’s covered his trail well, I’ll give him
that,” he said at last. “There has to be some way to force his
hand.”

She knew the same longing. Every moment that
passed the likelihood of their marriage increased. She’d followed
him, spied on him, attempted to pry his secrets from his very lips.
A shame she didn’t have the knowledge of a Bow Street Runner.
Surely Jamie could force a confession, if only he could get close
enough.

Emily felt a smile forming along with an
idea. “Perhaps I can help you,” she said. “We’re having an
engagement dinner tomorrow night. Why don’t you join us? At the
very least, you could ask a few questions of those who know him
best.”

He was so still he might have been carved
from the marble Lady St. Gregory favored. “At the Townsend house?”
he mused. “I doubt I’d be welcome.”

Very likely not. Lord Robert had lashed out
the moment she’d mentioned Jamie’s name. But if she brought the two
of them together, perhaps they all might learn a few secrets.

She put a hand on his arm. “On the contrary,
Mr. Cropper. You will be most welcome. I’ll ask Lady Wakenoak to
add your name to the guest list, and I look forward to seeing you
tomorrow night.”

“You lack all sense of finesse,” Lady Minerva
complained when Priscilla’s coachman had dropped Emily at the
townhouse and headed for home. “You are very fortunate your father
is out again, or you would be in for a scolding.”

The two of them were safely ensconced on
chairs in Emily’s bedchamber, a pot of tea on the table between
them.

“I rather thought that’s what you were doing
now,” Emily replied, calming lifting her steaming cup.

Lady Minerva sniffed. “If you consider this a
scold, you have led a very sheltered life. Now, what did you learn
about Lord Robert?”

Emily sighed. “Precious little. However, I
hope to change that on Sunday.” She took a sip of her tea before
continuing, unsure of her aunt’s reaction. “I invited James Cropper
to join us.”

Lady Minerva gasped. She sputtered. She set
down her tea cup and waved a hand before her face as if trying to
push air into her lungs. Then she leaned forward and met Emily’s
gaze. “Have you gone mad?”

Emily raised her chin. “It is celebration of
my impending marriage, is it not? Surely I’m allowed to invite a
few friends.”

“Friends, certainly, but we both know Mr.
Cropper is no friend.” Her aunt busied herself with retrieving her
teacup as if sure of Emily’s agreement. When Emily said nothing,
Lady Minerva’s head slowly rose.

“Are you not quick to disabuse me. I say
James Cropper cannot possibly be your friend.”

Emily set down her own cup and was surprised
to hear it crack against the saucer. “And I say you are wrong. He
has done me nothing but kindnesses.”

Lady Minerva shook her head. “No, no, no,
gel. It simply isn’t done. You cannot acquire a passion for the
fellow. Your father would never condone it.”

Of course she knew that. The daughter of a
duke could never marry a Bow Street Runner. But on hearing it said
aloud, something inside her rebelled. It seemed she could not
choose her husband, her friends, or even her pastimes. Something
was very wrong with the world.

“James Cropper is coming to the party,” Emily
said, leaning against the back of the chair and crossing her arms
over the chest of her satin dressing gown. “The dinner is my last
chance to convince Father to let me cry off, and Mr. Cropper is my
best hope for discovering Lord Robert’s secret.”

Lady Minerva shook her head as she picked up
her cup again. “The good Lord may have something to say about that.
You wait and see.”

* * *

Sunday morning Jamie attended services at St.
George’s-in-the-East as he usually did. He watched his mother’s
lips move silently through the prayers, listened to her voice as
she sang the psalms. She was still a handsome woman, dressed in a
fine serpentine gown she’d made herself in between commissions from
the shop where she worked as a seamstress. The gentlemen of the
parish were always quick to open doors, tip their hats when she
passed. Here in Ratcliffe, she’d managed to avoid the scandals of
her past. And here he was about to stir them up again.

Yet how could he sit quietly and do nothing?
Despite what the magistrate thought, his dedication to this case
wasn’t entirely personal. Lord Robert was guilty of a terrible
crime, and he deserved to be punished for it just as his victims
deserved justice. All he could hope was that the truth would
out.

“What would you do if the Townsends
acknowledged me?” he asked his mother as he walked her home past
the narrow little houses of the parish.

Her smile was sad. “Ah, my sweet lad, still
dreaming? They don’t want to remember, especially now that his
lordship has gone. No one knew the truth but him and me, the staff,
and a few of his friends. They’ve all kept silent over the years.
No one would believe me now.”

She stopped at the door of the women’s
rooming house where she lived and lay a hand on his cheek. “Leave
it be, Jamie. You’ve done well for yourself, learning to read and
write, finding a respectable position. You have no need for them,
nor any in the aristocracy.”

“Sure-n yer right, mam,” he murmured with a
smile, and she dropped her hand to rap his knuckles as she used to
do when we was a child.

“Speak properly, if you please,” she said,
scold softened by her smile. “You learned that from me if nothing
else.”

He seized her hand. “I learned a great deal
from you, madam, determination, dignity. The least was how to speak
like the gentleman I will never be. Whatever happens, know that I
hold you in the highest regard.”

Her smile faded. “Jamie? Has something
happened?”

He kissed her knuckles. “Nothing that need
concern you. I promise.”

He was still wondering how to keep that
promise as he returned to his rooming house off the Strand. Should
he refuse to go tonight? Could he actually learn anything from
meeting Lord Robert in his own home? Or was he merely torturing
himself, trying to pretend he belonged there?

As he turned the corner, he saw a fine
carriage waiting at the door of his rooming house. He recognized
the ducal crest on the door and nearly groaned. What was Emily
thinking to come here? He could not doubt she’d be clever enough to
have learned his direction. But she had to know this was no place
for her. He hurried to the coach, but another face looked down at
him from the open window.

“Inside,” Lady Minerva ordered him. Then she
glanced around as if to make sure no one would notice.

Bemused, Jamie climbed into the coach with
her. She was dressed all in black, and as she closed the window and
the shutters, she became a shadow across from him.

“You will not be attending the dinner party
tonight,” she said.