Art and Artifice (21 page)

He brushed past her, leaving the room,
leaving the house, leaving her life.

The darkness inside her spilled into her
mouth, burning, suffocating. She couldn’t bear the sight of all
these smiling people, couldn’t hear another word in
congratulations, couldn’t breathe.

She only found her breath again after she was
sick, all over Lord Robert’s shiny black evening shoes.

“You there! Stop this instant!”

His feet on the pavement outside the Townsend
townhouse, Jamie turned at the sound of Lady Minerva’s strident
voice. Habit. His mother had always said that when your betters
call, you better answer. The trouble was, at the moment, he could
not agree that anyone in that house was his better.

Still, he waited as the elderly lady stomped
down the stairs to his side. Her long nose pointed accusingly at
him. “How could you leave her to a monster!”

Jamie shook his head. “You made it very
plain, your ladyship, that any suit of mine would be inadvisable
and unwelcome. What did you expect me to do?”

She threw up her bony arms. “Fight! Show him
for the dastard he is. Challenge him to a duel!”

“Only gentlemen are allowed to challenge,” he
told her. “And dueling is against the law.”

“A law you uphold only when it suits you,”
she complained with a snort. “Have you no love for the lady, then?
Is she truly to wed that creature?”

The idea made him ill. “You heard them. She
signed the papers. She’s accepted him as husband. She could have
said no at any time, and she didn’t.”

“You, sir,” she said, “should know better
than most that sometimes a lady finds it impossible to say no.”

The reminder felt like a punch to the gut. He
refused to bow to it. “Then the lady has to live with the
consequences.”

“And you are content to let it go at
that?”

The disgust in her voice echoed inside him.
“What I want doesn’t matter. It’s what she wants.”

“And you think she wants this?” She shook her
gray head. “Forgive me, sir. I understood you to be well acquainted
with my niece. I was under the impression you cared.”

“And if I do?” He straightened to his full
height, a good head above hers, stared down at her, daring her to
contradict him. “I am nothing to her, a tool to be used, a brush
that broke in her hand, fit for nothing but to be thrown away.
Isn’t that how every aristocrat thinks?”

She did not so much as flinch. “If you
believe that, sir, then I pity you.”

Jamie turned away. “Save your pity. I don’t
need it. I have a job to do, and I’ll do it. Nothing more.”

Her fingers latched onto his arm. He glanced
back and was surprised to see moisture pooling in her eyes.
“Please?” she murmured. “The girl deserves better.”

Something twisted inside him. Yes, she
deserved better. He’d said so from the start. But Lavinia Haversham
and his mother deserved better too. Though Emily’s decision hurt,
he should not allow it to change his determination to see justice
done.

He took Lady Minerva’s fingers and gently
lifted them from his sleeve. “There, madam, we can agree. But if
she truly doesn’t wish this match, she’ll have to be the one to
make the next move.”

She nodded. “She will. I am certain of it.
And when she does, you’ll stand by her?”

He ought to say no. He ought to walk away,
before his heart broke any further. Yet, like Lady Minerva, he
could not seem to leave Emily to her fate.

“If she jumps out of this mess with Lord
Robert,” he promised, “I’ll be there to catch her. Just see that
she jumps quickly, before it’s too late.”

* * *

Jamie was nowhere to be seen when Emily left
the townhouse a short time later, leaning on her father’s arm.
Priscilla had agreed to ride home with the Courdebas family. Lady
Minerva, who was already at the coach, made room for Emily on the
rear-facing seat.

His Grace was solicitous as he tucked the
ermine lap robe about Emily. “There, now,” he said with a smile.
“I’m sure tonight was simply too exciting. You’ll feel better in
the morning.”

She sincerely doubted that. She would never
have an opportunity to prove herself to Society. Her art would soon
be a thing of the past. She was set to marry a vile villain. And,
worst of all, the man she loved thought her faithless. She thought
she might never feel well again.

Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne had been just
as concerned, clustering around her for only a moment before His
Grace had whisked her away. Ariadne’s face had been long and
mournful, and her lips had trembled as if she struggled with what
to say. Priscilla had looked worse, her color gone, one arm wrapped
about the lavender gauze as she hugged herself.

Daphne enfolded Emily in her long arms and
held her close, as if she were a mighty warrior and could protect
Emily from any harm. For a moment, all Emily could do was stand and
soak up the warmth.

“This is a terrible injustice,” Ariadne had
murmured, laying a hand on Emily’s shoulder, her touch another
blanket against the chill that had overtaken Emily. “But we will
prevail.”

How, Emily could not see.

“I hate to question you when you’re feeling
poorly,” her father continued now, leaning back against the
cushions as the carriage started for home. “But you mentioned that
you were acquainted with Mr. Cropper. How did that come about?”

Lady Minerva’s gaze met Emily’s, solemn. She
wasn’t sure what her aunt expected her to say. She could hardly
confess that she’d seen him every time she’d tried to follow Lord
Robert. Nor could she tell her father she’d been dreaming of him
her whole life, a man who would appreciate her art, appreciate her.
A man she could trust with her heart.

“I first met him when he came to the house a
few days ago,” she said.

Her father frowned. “He did not approach
me.”

“Very likely he knew how busy you are,” Lady
Minerva put in. “And he would have had to report to me in any
event, as he was investigating the theft of my pearls.”

Now her father turned his frown to Lady
Minerva. “Your pearls? I was certain Warburton told me they were
found the other day, behind a cushion in the withdrawing room.”

Lady Minerva pressed her hand against her
chest. “Were they? Why, how forgetful of me!”

The old fraud! She’d known her pearls were
safe, yet she’d kept Jamie on retainer. Very likely she enjoyed the
excitement of working with a Bow Street Runner. Oh, but she and her
aunt were too similar! Right now, however, Emily had another matter
for His Grace.

“How do you know Mr. Cropper?” she asked her
father. “You said you remembered his mother.”

Her father sighed. “It is not a topic I would
choose to discuss with you.”

Aunt Minerva tsked. “She is already
acquainted with the young man and about to marry Lord Robert. Don’t
you think it time she knew the truth?”

Still her father sat, brow knit.

Lady Minerva raised her chin. “James Cropper
is the son of the previous Lord Wakenoak,” she announced.

Emily threw off the lap robe. Of course!
Jamie was Lord Robert’s half-brother! She’d seen the resemblance
from the first in that magnificent mane of hair. And no wonder he
brindled every time she mentioned Robert’s name.

“You knew Lord Wakenoak had an illegitimate
child, and you never told me?” she challenged her father.

They drove near a light then, and she could
see him looking intently at her, his brown eyes dark. “There are a
great many things I do not tell you, Emily Rose,” he said. “Be glad
for that fact.”

She felt herself blushing. “Yes, well, it
seems I needed to know this one.”

“Indeed,” Lady Minerva intoned. She nudged
His Grace with her foot. “Get on with it then, Emerson.”

He sighed as if resigned to his fate. “It is
not a happy tale. Wakenoak had his wilder moments, which I could
not like. Jasmine Cropper was a delightful young woman, the
daughter of an Irish peer and one of Lady Wakenoak’s goddaughters
come to join them for the Season.” He sighed again. “It is a sad
fact, Emily, that some gentlemen must have their own way, even when
it hurts others.”

Lord Robert came to mind. She’d always
thought he was his father’s favorite. It seemed they had a great
deal in common, even in bullying women.

“There would have been a great scandal, of
course,” Lady Minerva said, “but Miss Cropper very wisely chose to
sequester herself in a quiet corner of London and add a ‘Mrs.’ to
her name. I understand her family cut all ties to her.”

Her father nodded. “When I learned James had
been born, I advised Wakenoak to give him every advantage. I
thought he’d at least paid for tutoring, but it appears the boy had
to pull himself up by his bootstraps.”

“He’s done rather well,” Lady Minerva pointed
out. “One of the youngest to be chosen by Bow Street, several
notable captures to his name. Still, hardly the life of a
gentleman.”

“I’ll speak to my steward,” her father
promised. “Perhaps we can find a place for him on one of the
estates.”

An estate manager would have been no better
consort for the daughter of a duke, but she supposed it hardly
mattered now. Unless Jamie accused Lord Robert of some crime in the
next two days, she was as good as married.

And even if Jamie accused Lord Robert, she
had no hope of regaining his good regard. He was right. She had
used him, brought him to the dinner in a desperate attempt to show
up Lord Robert. He would see her as no better than his father,
using others for her own gain. He’d never forgive her.

She was so despondent that she had only a
vague memory of entering the townhouse and bidding her father good
night. She stood quietly as Mary helped her change, dismissing the
maid as quickly as possible. But she could not make herself climb
into bed.

Instead, she found her way to her easel and
stood staring at the soldiers, the roses of their badges stark red
and white in the candlelight. Who cared about battles from long ago
when people’s hearts were breaking and dreams were shattering right
here, right now? Surely there was something more important she
could paint.

She hefted the larger canvas down and
replaced it with the second, smaller one Miss Alexander had sent
with her. She gazed at the blank canvas for the longest time, until
she began to see shades of gray and blue and yellow in the expanse
of cream. But nothing grand enough, beautiful enough came to mind.
She simply could not paint a bowl of fruit. She’d give up painting
first!

She was nearly ready to give up now. How was
it Lady St. Gregory thought her incapable of putting herself into
her battle scenes? Even Jamie had said Emily had missed the
emotion. They were both wrong.

She put herself into her paintings. The bold
colors made her feel stronger. The solidity of the oils gave her a
sense of control, as if the world could be just as she ordered it,
given time and patience. And the battle scenes, well, they were
big, powerful. In them, men were heroes, and heroes triumphed. And,
in a small way, so did she. Painting anything else felt limited,
insignificant.

Vulnerable.

She turned to her paints. Her hands shook as
she mixed the oils, prepared her palette. She didn’t sketch the
piece in charcoal first as was her wont. She attacked the canvas,
stroking on the paint surely. If no one knew what she was made of,
she’d simply have to show them.

The painting came to life quickly. Indeed,
the ease of it surprised her. Color and form blended, became real.
Then love and hope and sadness mixed, slowing her hand. It was as
if she painted with her own tears, her own blood.

Memory fueled each stroke: the delicate smell
of Priscilla’s perfume, the infectious sound of Ariadne’s giggle,
the strong touch of Daphne’s hand. She thought of His Grace tucking
the lap robe about her with care, Jamie facing down a beggar twice
his size to protect her. There was warmth and bittersweet pain in
remembering how many people loved her, how many people she
loved.

Even if they were no longer at her side.

She stepped back finally and eyed the piece.
Very likely it would never earn her Lady St. Gregory’s approval or
a place in the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. But she needed no
one to tell her it was very, very good.

She only wished she could say the same for
the rest of her life.

The next morning, Emily wanted only to escape
the house. She was afraid to look at what she’d painted last night,
knowing it would likely never be seen by anyone but her. She didn’t
much want to be left alone with her thoughts, either. So she
dressed in her riding habit and headed for the mews.

It was still early when she rode her horse
into Hyde Park. Poised on the edge of Rotten Row, Emily bent over
Medallion’s head, gloved hands on her horse’s reins.

“I need you to fly today,” she murmured into
the black ear.

Medallion shook her head, the silky mane
caressing Emily’s cheek. She touched her heels to the horse’s flank
and felt the muscles bunch beneath her. In a breath, they were
away.

The thoroughbred pounded down the sandy
track, the beat of her hooves echoing the pounding of Emily’s
heart. The air, heady with the blooms of spring, swept past her,
cooling her skin, wiping clean her mind, imbuing hope, purpose.

She had only today and tomorrow to catch Lord
Robert. She had to think, plan, determine some way to expose him to
all of London.

But how?

They reached the end of Rotten Row, with
Kensington Palace looming in the background, and Emily pulled the
horse up. Rubbing her hand along the glossy neck, she turned
Medallion for the walk back up Hyde Park.

And heard her name being called.