La Petite Four (18 page)

She hadn’t been certain he’d answer, but the footman returned from Bow Street with the note straightaway. On the back was written in a strong, male hand, “EAR 9 L JC.” The EAR, 9, and JC she understood: He was confirming that he’d meet her at the ball at nine by including his initials. The L, however, kept her in such a dither that it was a wonder she got anything else done!

By the time she walked into the entry hall of the Elysium Assembly Rooms later that evening, Emily felt as frayed as the ends of an old shawl. She could only hope she looked better. Having had no time to get a ball gown made, 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 cheeks. The weight of the Emerson emeralds pressed down on her chest, cool, solid, impressive in their gold settings.

She would much rather have been wearing her locket. Already she missed touching it, looking at it. She would have liked that little source of comfort tonight, particularly when she alighted from the carriage on His Grace’s arm. The Elysium Assembly 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. The stairs to the door seemed taller, the entry hall wider. But there was Priscilla, waiting for Emily in the receiving line.

Not a fellow was going to be able to keep his eyes off her. Her 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 kept warbling, as if she’d doubted that any of the 250 guests had truly meant their acceptances.

“Neither Lord Robert nor Mr. Cropper has arrived so far,” Priscilla 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. “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 Emily’d thought. 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?

A murmur ran through the crowd. Then 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 entryway. 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, 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 a Scottish deerhound.

The elegant creature was immense, its black nose coming to the lady’s breast bone. The dog’s thick, rough, dark gray coat made it look even more powerful, and the far away look in its hazel eyes told Emily it was ready to snap its jeweled leash and run. Preferably with a stag between its sharp teeth.

“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 to catch another glimpse of the rare hound. The white gown’s overskirt 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 her friends.

“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 deerhound 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. She minced past them with only a sidelong look out of the corners of her eyes, apparently making 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 upon such brilliance.”

Daphne giggled. Ariadne peered around her sister. “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 was speechless. 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 statues of creamy marble 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.

Why did Emily have to spend her time hunting Lord Robert?! Daphne seemed to have the same thought. 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 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 flesh all along Emily’s arms.

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

“Either that or the deerhound’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.

The older ladies and gentlemen had already taken up residence upon the velvet cushions, plumping 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?

She wanted to scream like the peacock. She felt just as trapped. All her efforts, all her plans, were in vain if Lord Robert did not arrive. But she caught sight of neither he nor Jamie before a servant in glittering white livery shut the double doors to the entryway and Priscilla and her parents turned to their waiting guests.

“That’s all right,” Ariadne murmured. “He’ll simply be fashionably late. That’s the perfect trait for a villain.”

It certainly was. Emily could not imagine a more potent way of torturing someone.

At the top of the room, Mr. Tate waved a hand. “Welcome to you all! I can only say how proud I am to have reached this moment in our dear daughter’s life.”

Mrs. Tate wailed and bowed her head, shoulders shaking. “Allow me, Father,” Priscilla said, leaving her father to pat his overcome wife awkwardly on the shoulder of her gown, the front of which was turning a darker hue from her tears.

Priscilla spread her arms as if she longed to hug each guest to her heart. “Welcome, dear friends, beloved family! We are so delighted you could join us tonight. Let our enchanted garden be yours.” She clapped her hands.

And a few of the statues woke, stretched, waved white arms gracefully before falling back into new positions.

The guests applauded.

“Thespians,” Ariadne said. “From Drury Lane.”

“Before we begin the dancing,” Priscilla continued, “my dear friend Lady Emily Southwell has a gift for her father, the Duke of Emerson. You’ll find it near the entrance.”

Near the entrance? Emily had been so concerned about finding Lord Robert that she’d completely forgotten her painting! She’d had Warburton deliver it only this afternoon. As the guests began moving in that direction, Emily hurried past them to reach it first. Her father was already waiting beside it, gazing at it. She could not tell what he was thinking, was afraid to ask. Priscilla had followed her, and the Tates were close behind. Mrs. Tate sniffed back a sob as if she thought something dreadful was going to happen.

Emily certainly hoped she was wrong.

But her entire body started to tremble as everyone stared at the painting. What did they think? What would they say? When others had criticized her battle scenes, she’d risen immediately to the defense. If they criticized this piece, she thought she might crumble into dust.

For from out of the painting, her mother gazed with dark eyes. Her black hair was pulled back from her narrow face, and no one but Emily knew how frizzy it could be in the rain. She was wearing a white gown with a green sash, the Emerson colors, and the smile on her face welcomed everyone she saw. It said she had never met a stranger and never parted from a friend. It said she believed herself with them even now.

A tear ran down Emily’s face, but she didn’t wipe it away. It felt right, and she knew her mother would understand.

Certainly her father did. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. “You’ve captured that quality she had that drew me to her from the first. Well done, daughter. This is the greatest gift you could have given me.”

Emily’s heart was so full, she felt it pressing against the bodice of her mother’s beautiful gown. “Thank you, Father.”

She chanced a glance around and found everyone gazing at her mother. More than one eye glittered with tears. Priscilla’s lips were trembling, and Daphne and Ariadne were wiping at their cheeks. Even the hermit was staring at the piece. Emily’d touched their hearts, and her own swelled to bursting. They were so hushed, she could hear the sound of a clock chiming the hour outside. She did not need to hear each beat to know the time.

It was nine, and Jamie had not come.

Another tear fell, but this one she wiped away as Lady St. Gregory glided to her side. Once more the sculptress was gowned in blue, this time of a cool hue that matched the ice sculptures melting behind her. “An interesting piece, Lady Emily. Not your usual style.”

“Indeed no,” Acantha Dalrymple said, pushing her way to the front as well. “Perhaps if you’d tried something like this, you might not have lost the Barnsley Prize in Art to me.” She smiled winningly at Lady St. Gregory. “And may I say, your ladyship, that I am a great admirer of your work.”

A swath of purple caught Emily’s eye. Lady Wakenoak had arrived at last. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, an ostrich plume waving over her gray curls.

“Excuse me,” Emily murmured, leaving Acantha to toady up to the sculptress to her heart’s content.

Lady Wakenoak surprised Emily with a kiss on one cheek. “Lord Robert is here, the naughty boy,” she murmured in Emily’s ear. “I can’t remember where he told me to have you meet him, so you’ll simply have to find him.”

Find him? Emily straightened away from her with a frown. What game was this? Why didn’t he approach her? Did he know she had something planned? Had he outmaneuvered her yet again?