La Petite Four

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La Petite Four

RAZORBILL

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
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Copyright © 2008 Regina Lundgren

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To the Lord, for inspiration and encouragement
To my Emily and my Larry, for believing in me
To Jessica and Lexa for working so hard
To the ever-supportive Kris for brainstorming, Lord Snedley,
and blood pooling about decapitated bodies
And to library staff everywhere, especially Marsha Bates
of the Mid-Columbia Library and John Charles of the
Scottsdale Public Library, who point us to books that teach,
enrich, and set us to dreaming of all we can be

1

Lady Emily Southwell, trained from birth to be the refined daughter of a duke, did the unthinkable. She hoisted the soft blue of her skirts, slipped out of the Barnsley School Grand Salon to leave the remaining seven members of the graduating class to their celebration, and ran. The sounds of their laughter echoed behind her, calling her to return, to accept their well wishes, to accept her dismal future.

She refused. She would not let them witness the depths of her vast disappointment.

And she could not let Lord Robert find her.

She dashed down the school’s main corridor, the slap of her amethyst-colored satin slippers against the polished floor nearly as loud as the gasp of her breath. Paneled doorways and soaring arches whipped past. Paintings of sweeping landscapes and dark myths framed in heavy gilt were little more than a blur, even Miss Martingale’s favorite,
The Fall of Man
.

A rather inferior piece, really. Emily could do better.

A voice cried behind her, calling her name. Emily didn’t dare turn to see who it was. As long as she pretended she didn’t know her fate was waiting downstairs, she was free.

She rounded the corner, flew up the short flight of marble stairs, and ducked into the sunny bedchamber she’d shared the last few years with her three dearest friends, Priscilla Tate and Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas. The sounds of the elegant soiree faded away, but Miss Martingale’s terrible announcement still rang in Emily’s ears.

How could it have come to this? They had waited
years
for this day, when they completed their education at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies and went to London. The old brick building had never looked so festive, adorned with laurel wreaths, gold-trimmed draperies, and banners welcoming their distinguished guests. All eight members of the graduating class had been equally adorned in their best silks, as bright as the tulips planted along the drive.

Except for Emily, of course. She’d worn dark blue.

Then, in what should have been Emily’s proudest moment, their headmistress had announced the winner of the Prize in Art, a prize Emily had longed for since her first day at the esteemed school. How could she have lost, and to
Acantha Dalrymple
of all people?!

She yanked the white satin sash off her shoulder. What did graduation matter if she was not acknowledged? Who cared for congratulations, spiced punch and cakes, fond remembrances of the past eight years, when her future was entirely blighted?

Or would be, if she didn’t leave. Now.

Her green wool traveling gown lay spread on the four-poster bed, but no maid stood ready to help. They were all downstairs, working at the celebration for the parents and well-wishers. It was all up to her, then. She reached behind her and tugged at the tapes that held her gown shut, fingers slipping on the soft material. Oh, why did everything have to be difficult!

“Here, let me,” Daphne said, hurrying into the room. Her breath came easily, unlike Emily’s, and not a honey-colored hair was out of place. Emily had once painted her as Artemis, goddess of the hunt, all rousing good cheer. Daphne’s mother had taken exception to the diaphanous robes and insisted that Emily paint on a high-necked bombazine gown instead. Who ever heard of Artemis riding to the hunt in bombazine?

But Daphne did not seem to appreciate her height and athletic abilities. To ensure a successful Season, she’d turned to etiquette books the last few weeks before graduation and memorized Lord Pompadour Snedley’s
Guide to London’s Beau Monde
, illustrated and annotated.

Emily turned and felt Daphne’s strong fingers make quick work of the troublesome tapes. “Priscilla is speaking to her father,” her friend reported as she worked, “and Ariadne will be along shortly. What more do you need?”

“My half boots,” Emily replied, kicking off her slippers as she shrugged out of the muslin. “And where is my travel case?”

“I’ll find it,” the younger Ariadne volunteered as she entered in a rush of pale pink skirts, breath a gasp, darker curls wilting around her face. Though she and Daphne were only eleven months apart, they had little in common in looks or abilities other than a kind temperament and Emily’s friendship. In fact, Ariadne always reminded Emily of a canary—small, round, bright, and inquisitive—just the sort of encouragement one needed on a rainy day.

Or when one’s life had ended before it had begun.

Daphne slipped the traveling gown over Emily’s head. The warm folds slid down her body, but still she felt chilled. As the wool settled around her, she plucked out her locket from the top of her chemise and laid the gold oval on the wool, the familiar touch steadying her.

Emily peered into the dressing table mirror long enough to run her fingers through her hair. Not that it mattered. Her black hair was more frizzy than curly, and the frizz was always worse in the rain. They had a lot of rain in England. And her features were too angular for her to be called beautiful. She’d seen too many portraits to think otherwise.

“It truly is unfair,” Daphne said as she came to finish the fastenings. “You should have won the prize.”

Emily took one look at Daphne’s warm smile in the mirror and felt her eyes grow hot and scratchy. Yes, she should have won; she’d done everything to win the Barnsley Prize in Art. But crying wouldn’t help. She’d cried enough when her mother had died eight years ago; it hadn’t brought her mother back. Besides, Emily would much rather solve a problem than cry over it.

Which was why she had to get to London and see her father— His Grace, the Duke of Emerson.

“Your valise,” Ariadne announced, setting the leather-bound case on the bed. She frowned. “Why does your nightgown rattle?”

“Because those are my paint pots,” Emily replied, sitting to accept her leather half boots from Daphne, who opened the travel case to shove in the slippers. “I stuffed my nightclothes in my reticule. Speaking of which . . .”

“I’ll find it,” Daphne said, going to search the wardrobe for the little drawstring handbag.

Ariadne sat next to Emily, her blue eyes thoughtful. “None of the others who joined the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts won the Barnsley Prize, you know. Lady St. Gregory invited them based on their work. I’m sure it will be the same for you.”

“It will if I can persuade His Grace to dismiss these rumors of an engagement,” Emily promised her. “I cannot
think
what Lord Robert is about. He couldn’t be bothered to write over the last ten years since our parents spoke of us marrying, and yet he shows up today, bold as brass, and intends to carry me off without so much as a ‘by your leave’!”

“Well, it was only an offer to escort you to London,” Ariadne, ever the voice of reason, pointed out. “At least, that’s what Miss Martingale told Mother.”

Thank goodness she had, and thank
goodness
Ariadne had overheard and come straight to Emily as they were waiting in the Grand Salon after the graduation ceremony had ended. Otherwise, Emily would have been stuck in a carriage for the next two days with the arrogant fellow and would have no chance to beat him to her father to beg for a reprieve.

For what would she do if she found herself engaged so soon? Some girls would count it a triumph, but to her it would be a disaster. She had plans for her Season, plans that did not include dancing attendance on the loathsome Lord Robert. Without the Prize in Art to recommend her, she must convince Lady St. Gregory to invite her into the Royal Society. Oh, that she might breathe that rarified air, rub shoulders with London’s elite, see her paintings exhibited next to the best artists in all of England!

And worse, she might miss the ball! It would be just like him to insist upon it. Lord Robert had always been adept at getting his own way. As a child he had whined and sniffled and thrown tantrums for the least little refusal. If he had other plans, if he preferred his friends to hers, she would be stuck at his side with no chance to do any of the marvelous things she had planned.

“There, it’s done,” Priscilla announced, sailing into the room in a swirl of lavender lace. “Father has the carriage waiting. He was just as glad to escape before anyone could question him. Where did I put my traveling gown?”

“Here,” Daphne offered helpfully, tossing the heavy gray wool at her. Priscilla caught it and tsked at the rough handling of the embroidered gown but quickly set about undoing the lace confection she wore. She had no trouble with the tapes, Emily noticed. Priscilla rarely had trouble with anything. All she had to do was bat those golden lashes, toss those golden curls, and the world fell at Priscilla’s feet. It was equally unfair that she should have to run from graduation.