Art and Artifice (23 page)

The other thing she did was dispatch notes,
several a day. At first he followed the footman to see where they
might be going, which led him to the homes of the Tates and
Viscount Rollings. Clearly she was communicating with her friends.
But when the footman ventured out of the Southwell townhouse again,
the fellow looked both ways, then scampered across the street.

“Sorry, Mr. Cropper, sir,” he said to the
tree Jamie had ducked behind. “Lady Minerva thought you might have
more luck if she steamed open the notes before I deliver them.” He
held out four missives, three of which clearly showed where the wax
had been melted. “She says she’ll reseal them when you’re finished.
And you’re to read her note first.”

Jamie could only shake his head at the lady’s
ingenuity as he stepped out from behind the tree and accepted the
parchment from the footman.

“Mr. Cropper,” Lady Minerva had written.
“Lord Robert has delayed the wedding to allow my niece to attend
the ball she and Miss Tate have been planning on this Friday. You
would do well to attend.” Her signature was a mere scrawl at the
bottom.

She advised him to attend as if his badge of
office would be enough to see him through the doors. Bow Street
Runners did not attend the balls of the aristocracy unless they had
been hired as security.

Still, she’d given him an opportunity with
these notes, and he’d be mad not to take it. He glanced at the
first note Lady Minerva had opened. It was to a Lady St. Gregory,
informing her that a painting would be displayed at the ball. Emily
wrote the word with a capital B as if it were the most important
event in London. Perhaps it was, from her point of view. She’d
wanted to show the art world what she could do. This must be her
chance. And it might well be her last night of freedom before
marrying. He forced that thought from his head.

The second note was to Lady Skelcroft, asking
her to wear the ruby brooch that had been stolen to the ball. Why
would Emily care what Lady Skelcroft wore? Why was the brooch so
important?

Frowning, he handed the two notes back to the
footman and glanced at the last. It was to him. His fingers
tightened on the parchment as he opened it.

“My dear Mr. Cropper,” Emily had written. “I
believe there has been a misunderstanding. Please come to Miss
Tate’s Ball at nine on Friday at the Elysium Rooms near Kensington
Palace, and all will be explained to your satisfaction. Your
friend, Lady Emily Southwell.”

So here was his invitation from the lady
herself. Yet she’d called herself his friend, as if that
relationship would possibly be satisfactory. And what did she hope
to explain? That she’d bowed to her father’s wishes and agreed to
marry Lord Robert? That anything more than a friendship between a
Bow Street Runner and a duke’s daughter was unthinkable?

That she had feelings for him after all?

What a coxcomb! Very likely she only meant to
explain that Lord Robert wasn’t the man he thought him. He didn’t
much want to hear that. Yet there were a few matters he wanted to
explain as well, that he had faith in her, that no matter what
happened he would always stand beside her when she needed him, if
only to cheer her as she flew.

“Will you have an answer, sir?” the footman
asked, watching him.

Oh, he had an answer all right, but not one
he wanted the footman or the canny Lady Minerva to intercept. He
took the pencil from his pocket and carefully wrote his response,
then handed the letter to the footman.

“Give Lady Emily that, if you would, and not
a word about the others.”

The footman nodded. “Aye, sir. And may I say
those of us on the staff are very much hoping you might win the
day.” He ducked his head and hurried back across the street before
Jamie could answer.

And what would he have said to that either?
He very much hoped the same thing, despite the fact that he knew it
to be impossible.

* * *

Emily stared at the note the footman returned
to her. Jamie’s response was only a combination of numbers and
letters written in pencil in a strong male hand: ER 9, L JC. The
ER, 9, and JC she understood: He was confirming that he’d meet her
at the Elysium Rooms at nine by including his initials. But that L.
Her heart started beating faster. What could that possibly mean?
Could he have forgiven what he must see as her betrayal? Did he
have feelings for her after all? Oh, she could pin all her hopes on
that letter!

By the time she walked into the entry hall of
the Elysium Rooms Friday evening, she felt as frayed as the ends of
an old shawl. She could only hope she looked better. Having had no
time to commission a ball gown for the evening, she’d retrieved her
mother’s gown from the attic and had Mary pin her into it. Mary had
also styled her hair into complicated braids and curls, with wisps
escaping to tease her cheek. The weight of the Emerson emeralds
pressed down on her chest, cool, solid, impressive in their gold
settings.

“You look lovely, dear,” Lady Minerva had
assured her as she and Emily alighted from the coach on the drive
before the assembly rooms.

So did their destination. The Elysium Rooms
glowed like a stone lantern in the clear spring night. Carriages
crowded the drive, the rattle mixing with the sound of voices
raised in excitement. Knowing what tonight might mean, she could
not catch her breath. The marble stairs to the door seemed too
high, the entry hall impossibly long. But there was Priscilla,
waiting for Emily in the receiving line.

Emily could only smile. Not a fellow was
going to be able to keep his eyes off her friend tonight.
Priscilla’s delphinium blue gown was edged in white satin ruffles,
with four parallel rows around the full skirt. It shimmered with
light as she curtsied to her guests. The simple blue sapphire
pendant around her neck called attention to the expanse of creamy
white skin showing on her shoulders, and her golden curls were
piled high with pearled combs to cascade down the back of her head.
She was the fairy princess, presiding over her court. If she was
not the toast of London by tomorrow, there was no justice in the
world.

Mrs. Tate sniffed back a sob as she clutched
His Grace’s hand in the crowded, bustling receiving line. “So, so,
good of you to come,” she warbled.

“What,” Lady Minerva whispered to Emily, “did
she doubt that we meant our acceptances?”

Priscilla had more important news to relate.
“Neither Lord Robert nor Mr. Cropper has arrived so far,” she
murmured to Emily as they hugged in line. “And I’m still waiting
for Daphne and Ariadne.”

“Then I’ll wait by the door,” Emily murmured
back as they parted. “Did the Duke of Rottenford arrive?”

Priscilla nodded, eyes bright. “One of the
first! And he actually kissed my hand!”

Oh, but the night could only get better. She
hoped.

Waiting by the door, however, proved to be
more difficult than she’d thought. First, she had to deposit Lady
Minerva on the couches with the other older ladies, and her aunt’s
narrowed eyes told her that she suspected Emily was up to
something. Then she had to detour around the arrivals, all of whom
seemed to want to shake her hand and offer congratulations. And
once she positioned herself at the door, she had a good view of
those arriving but an abysmal view of the ballroom itself. And
where among all the silks and satins and velvets was Lord
Robert?

Then a murmur ran through the crowd. People
scurried out of the way as two bronzed young men, their faces
perfect mirrors of each other, shouldered a sedan chair of rare
ebony into the entry way. Beau Brummell stepped from the padded
interior and stood for a moment, letting everyone gaze upon his
glory. His nose was high, as if he resented the scent of roses on
the air. He caught Emily’s gaze on him, raised his quizzing glass
to inspect her, and nodded his approval.

My word! Wait until Priscilla heard!

More cries rang out, and the Beau turned to
eye the woman making her way to the front of the line. She was
gowned all in gold, with jet ear bobs dangling from her lobes below
her gold turban and jet beads dripping from her gown. Stalking
beside her was an Irish wolfhound, its golden-eyed glare as bright
as the jeweled chain tethering it to its mistress.

“Brummell,” the lady purred as she strolled
past.

“Show off,” Brummell muttered.

“Did you see that?” Daphne said, hurrying to
Emily’s side and standing on tiptoe as if to catch another glimpse
of the massive dog. The overskirt of the white gown she wore had
been embroidered with silver and the same embroidery edged her
modest neckline. Train draped over her arm, she looked like one of
the Parthenon Marbles come to life. Ariadne, however, seemed loath
to rid herself of her cloak, clutching the black velvet to her
chest as she joined them.

“Oh, that I might arrive in such style,”
Daphne said with a sigh.

Oh, that Lord Robert might arrive at all!

Acantha Dalrymple made nearly as good an
entrance. She didn’t have a wolfhound or an ebony sedan chair, but
her gown was a gossamer white, with diamond chips that caught the
light and made her look as if she’d just stepped from a rainbow.
Her sapphires sparked at her neck. She minced past them with only a
sidelong look out of the corners of her eyes, as if to make sure
they had seen her.

“As if we could miss her,” Ariadne said, lips
tight.

Emily shook her head. “I shall be blind for
the next quarter hour after forcing my eyes to gaze on such
brilliance.”

Daphne giggled.

Ariadne peered around her. “Oh, good.
Mother’s gone in. Give me a moment to dispose of my cloak.”

Emily frowned. Daphne looked nearly as
perplexed, then she clapped one hand over her mouth as Ariadne
returned.

Emily could only stare as well. Gone were the
soft pastels, the snowy white silk Lady Rollings so admired.
Ariadne’s gown was of watered silk in a vivid emerald green that
turned her eyes to turquoise. The scalloped neckline drew down over
her bosom, and the tiny bodice called attention to every curve.
Medallions of black lace decorated the full skirt and edged the
short puffy sleeves. Even her gloves and slippers were a
sophisticated black.

“Where did you get that?” Daphne
demanded.

Ariadne fluffed up her sleeves where the
material had been squashed against her cloak. “I saved my pennies
and commissioned it. I told you I refused to wear white again.”

“Mother will have an apoplectic fit,” Daphne
predicted. “And I do not care to hear what Lord Snedley has to
say.” She stood on tiptoe again to peer over the crowd. “Has he
arrived?”

“Hang Lord Snedley,” Ariadne said, as if the
new gown had made her reckless. She linked arms with Emily and
Daphne. “We have a criminal to catch. Let’s see what waits for us
inside and plot the perfect place to confront him with his
sins.”

“How many places are there in a ballroom?”
Emily asked with a frown as she followed Ariadne inside.

As it turned out, entirely too many.

Just as Priscilla had planned, the vast
ballroom had been transformed into an enchanted garden. Crimson
roses woven into evergreen swags draped the tall columns, perfume
scenting the air. Among them nestled gilded cages where bright
butterflies fluttered, and creamy statues in Grecian gowns and
classic poses dotted the space. A fountain of scarlet punch bubbled
in one corner, surrounded by roses and potted ferns, and the
musicians of a small orchestra were even now taking their places on
the raised platform. On either side of the door to the veranda,
great blocks of crystalline ice had been sculpted to look like
distant mountains, beckoning the guests. Already the space was
filling, color blending with movement, voices blending in welcome,
excitement.

The vista energized Daphne, for she tugged
them around the room, exclaiming over each new delight. Tall potted
evergreens and vines with red-throated flowers the size of dinner
plates had been brought in and arranged in the far corner.

“It’s a maze!” Daphne cried, watching as a
couple darted inside, laughing. As if to decry the fun, from deep
within the curtain of green came a horrid shriek that split the
cool air and raised goose bumps all along Emily’s arms.

“White peacock,” Ariadne explained.
“Priscilla rented a dozen to parade the grounds. One must have
gotten loose.”

“Either that or the wolfhound’s found it,”
Daphne said, staring at the wall of green.

Not far from it lay a hermit’s grotto. A
stream trickled down a tower of rocks through ferns and roses until
it emptied into a small pool. Emily spotted gold moving under the
water lilies.

“She had to have goldfish,” Ariadne said with
a shake of her head.

“And a hermit,” Daphne said, nodding to the
rugged looking gentleman seated beside the stream. His battered hat
was pulled down low over his stubbled face, and his feet sticking
out from under the tattered pants were bare. “Just like at a
stately park. The poet Lord Byron would approve.”

“‘There is society, where none intrudes,’”
Ariadne quoted. “‘By the deep sea, and music in its roar. I love
not man the less but Nature more.’”

Priscilla clearly had hired the fellow to
portray the man in love with nature, but he seemed a bit too
interested in the people around him. Emily shivered, feeling his
gaze on them as they headed for the sofas and chairs grouped around
the dance floor.

Lady Minerva raised a brow as Emily paused
before them. The other older ladies and gentlemen around her aunt
perched upon the velvet cushions, plumped the pillows behind them.
Lady Wakenoak was not among the group. Had she not come? Had Lord
Robert used her absence as an excuse to stay home?

Would Emily never be free of the fellow?