Secrets and Sensibilities: A Regency Romance Mystery (The Lady Emily Capers Book 1) (19 page)

Lady Emily Southwell stopped a few feet from James Cropper.
Having happily left her hateful betrothed Lord Robert and his cryptic remarks
at his pretentious carriage, she could not help noticing the contrast between
the two men. Lord Robert had been completely confident both in himself and all
he planned, his prestige as loud as if he shouted it from the rooftops. James
was quieter, his brown coat and trousers less showy, but the tall ceilinged
entry hall felt smaller with him in it.

And she would never forget that smile. It seemed to promise
her something quite grand if she’d just forget herself and . . . do what?

“I would prefer that you explain your presence here,” she
told him. “I know it must have something to do with Lord Robert.”

He shrugged. “If it is, I couldn’t say, my lady.”

Emily puffed out a sigh. “If you tell me that it is a matter
between gentlemen I will likely scream.”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” he said, smile inching
higher. “But as you seem to expect me to behave in my official role as an
officer of the court, perhaps I should ask you whether you’ve been behaving
since we last met.”

He could be the most vexing man! Did he think her an infant
that he must watch over her? Her father the Duke of Emerson certainly trusted
her more than that.

“I assure you,” Emily replied with a toss of her curls
nearly as good as one of her friend Priscilla’s, “I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, aye.” She could hear the amusement in his drawl. “You
and your three friends were doing quite well when we met on Bond Street the
other day.”

He
would
bring that up. His rescue still rankled. She
made herself gaze at the mirror on the far wall rather that at his smug smile.
“I already thanked you for that service, sir.”

“Indeed you did, though rather grudgingly, I thought.” In
the mirror, she saw him glance at the footman, standing against the pale blue
wall as straight as a statue in his black livery. As if deciding the servant
posed no problem, James took a step closer as well. The scent of sandalwood
drifted up, whispering of warm summer nights in exotic places. Despite herself,
Emily turned her gaze to his, blinking as she tried to reconcile the cologne
with the man who wore it.

“Tell me you heeded my warning,” James murmured, gaze on
hers. “You’ve stayed away from the worst parts of London, haven’t you?”

Those gray eyes were fathomless, like looking up into the
pale morning sky on a spring day. “Yes,” she allowed. “Though I’d like to think
I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Oh, no,” he replied, smile widening once more. “You’ve
obviously outgrown the nursery.”

She wished she had a fan. Priscilla said it was best used to
rap insolent fellows across the knuckles. Emily would have preferred to wave it
frantically in front of her heated face.

As if he sensed her discomfort, he straightened away from her.
“And what has your fiancé been up to recently?”

The question should have been casual, simply polite
conversation, but Emily heard more behind it. He wasn’t sure what Lord Robert
was about. Well, neither was she. She did think, however, that James sounded
just the wee bit vexed that she might have spent time with his quarry.

“I just returned from an outing with him,” she admitted. “I
mentioned your name. He didn’t seem pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

“No doubt,” he said. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“Why?” she demanded. “You both are so sure I should avoid
the other, yet neither of you will explain.”

“Perhaps it’s not our place to tell,” he said, but his gaze
drifted upward, as if the chandelier was suddenly much more fascinating.

Emily threw up her hands. “Can you say nothing of any use to
me?”

“Only that you look very fetching in that gray gown.”

The gown felt entirely too warm and tight. She shook her
finger at him, forcing his gaze back down again. “Charm will not save you, sir.
I am immune to it. I swear that you and Lord Robert are a pair of coxcombs,
entirely too full of yourselves to listen.”

He laughed, a deep chuckle she was certain she’d find
warming under other circumstances. “Well, I’ve been accused of that often
enough.” He touched two fingers to his brow. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I say
my goodbyes, then.”

Perhaps it was her outing with Lord Robert still troubling
her, perhaps she found Mr. Cropper’s company as invigorating as it was
frustrating, perhaps she was merely being whimsical, but she didn’t want him to
walk out the door. “Tell me something before you go.”

He eyed her as if not trusting the direction of her
thoughts. “What would that be?”

She imitated the salute he’d given her. “Why do you do
this?”

He glanced down at his hand as if surprised she’d noticed.
“It’s an Irish gesture of respect.”

“Are you Irish, Mr. Cropper?”

He looked up and grinned. “Sure-n I learnt the movement at
me mother’s knee, yer laidyship. Me mam is right proud of her Jamie, she is.
Course the gesture gets a bit messy if I’ve been eat-n bread and jam. Can’t
figure how to keep them strawberries out of me hair.”

Emily couldn’t help her laugh. “You’d better stick with
roasted chestnuts then. You could hide any sign of them quite nicely.”

“So long as they didn’t singe me scalp.”

“Oh, you needn’t go so deep,” she assured him. “You could
put several of them right here, and no one would know.” She wasn’t sure what
possessed her, but she reached up to touch the wave of hair over his forehead.
The chestnut curl was warm and silky.

The laughter faded from his eyes to be replaced by an
intensity that took her breath away. Emily let her hand fall even as she heard
the unmistakable sound of her butler Warburton’s cough from the sitting room
door beside her.

“And you,” Jamie murmured softly, finger coming up to caress
the curls beside her ear, “you’d best not hide anything in that silk. It would
slide right through.”

Emily couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Warburton seemed to
have developed consumption, he coughed so hard.

Jamie leaned closer, and for an insane moment she thought he
intended to kiss her. Even more insane was her reaction. She closed her eyes
and wished Warburton to perdition.

“You’re a fine woman, Lady Emily Southwell,” Jamie murmured,
his breath a caress against her cheek. “You should find yourself a fine man for
a husband.”

Something brushed against her temple, so soft she feared she
had imagined it. It sent a tremor through her nonetheless. She opened her eyes,
but Jamie was already striding for the door, which the footman was holding wide
for him, eyes enormous.

“Wait!” She took a step after him, to do what, she wasn’t
sure.

Jamie turned, and his smile was sad. “There’s not much else
can be said between us, my dear. But if you need me, you have only to look.” He
gave her his salute one last time and left.

*

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Regina
Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as
we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit
more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories
have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch,
German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has over two dozen published works of
warm, witty romance.

She and her husband of more than twenty-five years reside in
the Puget Sound area of Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier.
Regina Scott has dressed as a Regency dandy, driven four-in-hand, learned to
fence, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn
more about her
at her website
.