| |
Emma frowned as she struck through the words on number five of her list. This afternoon she intended to pay a call on Susan and confront her. It still pained her that her dearest friend would have done such a thing. Then again, so far, very little about this list had happened the way she expected. Mostly due to one man.
Simon Kingsley thwarted her every effort to have a little fun. Frustration consumed her, causing her fists to clench into tight balls whenever she thought of that loathsome man. How could she be attracted to him?
Besides the obvious answer that the man’s looks were simply too handsome for words. And why did he have to tell her about his reputation last night? Now she knew he wasn’t the scoundrel and rake everyone spoke of in the ton. He’d had no involvement in that duel with Winston. After hearing that, she might decide she might yet like the man as well as desire him.
This would never do!
She couldn’t like him as a person. It was the dislike that helped, only slightly, to keep her desire in check. She had to maintain some measure of distance. Kingsley was everything she did not want in a husband. He owned a gaming hell. He was not titled and not wealthy. Those attributes were what she’d been taught to look for in a gentleman since she was a child. And he had none, so then she would put him out of her mind completely.
Then again, Bolton had had all those qualities, and he certainly had been a poor choice.
She focused her attention back on her list, determined to put the frustration she felt away from her mind. She stared at numbers six and seven. The carriage races were not until Saturday, so she could do nothing but plan how she might manage to slip into a carriage and steal it away from its owner to race. That left number seven because she had every intention of ignoring number nine until she could find someone other than Simon Kingsley to desire. She’d never said she had to finish her list by a specific time.
Glancing over at the clock on the mantel, she decided noon was an excellent time to pay a call on her friend. Emma rang for Mary then quickly replaced her list in the hidden drawer of her desk.
“Yes, miss?” Mary asked as she entered the room. “Have you decided to go out?”
“Yes,” Emma turned to face her maid. “I need to pay a call on Miss Lancaster.”
“Of course, shall I pull out the blue striped muslin?” Mary opened the door to the linen cabinet.
“Yes, and my spencer. I thought it looked like a pleasant day for a walk.”
Mary looked back at Emma with a frown. “Are you certain? It looks as if it might rain.”
Emma glanced out the window and noticed the gray clouds gathering to the west. “We should be able to arrive before the rain starts.”
“As you wish. But let me get your cloak, not a spencer.”
Emma shook her head. “Of course.”
Once dressed, Emma gathered her cloak and money before leaving the room to meet her maid in the front hall. As she waited, her mother descended the stairs, dressed to pay a call. “Where are you off to this morning, Mamma?”
“I must speak with Lady Huntley about this business at Almack’s last night. Did Susan give you any information?”
“No, she wasn’t at home.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “Of course not. She was likely at Almack’s and saw the entire debacle.”
“Mamma, it is not that dreadful. I truly don’t mind if I have to skip Almack’s for the Season.”
Mamma tilted her head and stared at her. “You silly girl. This goes far beyond Almack’s. Everyone will believe there is some reason for this rejection. On top of Bolton’s rejection last year, it means fewer invitations and less chance of finding a good husband for you.”
“I did go to Hell last night, Mamma.” Emma held up her hand to stop her mother’s interruption. “I wanted to find out if Mr. Kingsley had any idea about where such a rumor might have started. Perhaps another young lady had dressed as a boy and entered Hell.”
Her mother’s frown turned into a deep scowl. “Emma, you must never go there again. People might have seen you.”
“I am certain some did see me speak with him. But everyone knows that he is Louisa’s brother-in-law.”
“Still, all this nonsense will have the gossipmongers talking again. You may never find a husband at this rate.”
Emma could only hope so. It always came down to finding Emma a husband before she spoiled like a piece of meat. “I understand, Mamma. But with ten thousand on my head, I am sure some poor lord will still come calling.”
“We can only hope at this point. But I haven’t seen Lord Ainsley in days.”
“He went down to Worth to visit Harry and Louisa.” Blast! Why did she say that?
“Lord Ainsley was at Worth, and you decide to return early? What is wrong with you, Emma?” Her mother wrung her hands. “I only want the best for you, and Ainsley is perfect.”
“No, Mamma. Ainsley is not perfect for me.” She might as well admit the truth. “He kissed me, Mamma. I felt nothing for him. It was as if Harry had tried to kiss me. If felt brotherly, not husbandly.”
“You have read far too many silly books by that Mrs. Lewis. The only thing that matters in marriage is security and title. Give the man his heir and spare, and he won’t care what you do after that.”
Emma closed her eyes and counted to ten. There was no point in arguing with her mother. Although, thinking about it, Emma hadn’t read one of Mrs. Henrietta Lewis’ books since Bolton broke their engagement. Those books of romance and adventure had been her entertainment for years and now seemed rather silly.
“Mamma, enjoy your visit with Lady Huntley and give her my best. I am going to pay a call on Susan to discover what she might know.”
“I am taking the carriage, so you must walk. It looks like rain,” Mamma replied coldly and then departed.
“I’m ready, miss.”
Emma stared at her mother’s back as she walked down the steps for a moment longer before she turned to Mary. “Excellent. You’d best bring the umbrella. I do think we may get rain after all.”
As they walked toward the Grosvenor Square, Emma continually glanced up at the gloomy sky. While it was only a few blocks from her home on Green Street, the clouds threatened to release their rain before she arrived at Susan’s town house. Emma turned onto Grosvenor Square as a fat raindrop landed on her hand.
“Miss, I’m having difficulties with the umbrella,” Mary said as the rain suddenly increased.
Emma pulled up the hood on her cloak. “I’ll keep going.”
She put her head down and walked quickly into Lord Bolton. “Excuse...” her voice trailed off as she looked up at the face of her former fiancé.
“Miss Drake, you are getting soaked through.” He covered her with his umbrella. “Are you heading to the Lancasters’?”
“Umm, yes,” she replied, finally finding her voice.
“Here,” he held out his left arm. “Let me escort you.”
“There is no need. Mary is coming. She had some trouble with the umbrella.” Emma glanced back to see her maid walking toward her. “There is she now.”
“Allow me,” he said in a low tone.
Emma sighed. “As you wish.”
“You must wonder what I was doing here,” he started slowly. “Would it surprise you to learn that I had been hoping to catch you visiting Miss Lancaster?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Bolton smiled. “I’ve missed you, Miss Drake.”
Feeling her anger rising, she said, “Then perhaps you should not have listened to your mother’s advice in the first place.”
“You may be correct.” Stopping in front of the Viscount Lancaster’s home, he gazed down at her and said, “I hope you will save me a dance tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The Lancasters’ ball.”
“Of course.”
He smiled down at her.
Blast! She was tired of rote manners making her say things she did not wish to say.
Before she could retract her acceptance, Bolton said, “Excellent. I will see you for our dance tomorrow. Good day, Miss Drake.”
The front door opened, and a Lancaster footman welcomed her inside. A sigh fell from her lips when she realized Bolton was already too far to hear her. He wouldn’t have known she was acknowledging the ball, not the offer to dance with him.
“Was that Bolton?” Susan asked, descending the stairs with a frown.
“Yes.” Emma handed her cloak to the footman.
“Well, you must come to the parlor and tell me all about it. With the commotion of the ball preparations, we do not want to go anywhere near the first floor.” Susan led the way to the small parlor and promptly closed the door behind them. “Why did he escort you here?”
Emma sat on the floral damask chair with a sigh. She related the story of how Bolton came to her rescue with the umbrella. “I daresay I left him with the impression I would dance with him tomorrow night.”
Susan pursed her lips. “Dancing with him will get the gossipmongers started again.”
“I can’t reject him now. He believes I accepted.”
“Hmm, then perhaps you should dance with him. Maybe he is lamenting his decision to reject you.”
Emma fell silent as the footman brought in tea. If Bolton did regret the decision, which was most likely his mother’s decision, not his, should she allow him to court her again? Would she want him as a husband after such a horrid rejection?
“No,” Emma said with a shake of her head. “I will not allow him to embarrass me as he did a year ago. I will find a way to miss the set with him.”
Susan poured the tea and then handed a cup to Emma with a frown. “Do you think that is wise? It might be the perfect opportunity to restore your reputation.”
“You just said dancing with him will start the gossip again!” Emma sometimes felt like Susan’s mind worked like a whirligig spinning around a topic. She took the tea and an iced biscuit.
“Dancing with him may make people believe he is distressed by what happened with your engagement. These same people might also believe he intends to start courting you again. After all, his mother is ill, so her influence is lessened now. Everyone knows Lady Bolton is far too concerned over her status. She is not as high up as she thinks.”
“One set with Bolton might do all that?”
Susan shrugged. “I doubt it would hurt your name.”
Emma closed her eyes briefly as she enjoyed a bite of the delicious iced biscuit. Dancing with Bolton might be useful for her reputation, but she did not care any longer. If she led Bolton to believe he had a chance with her again, it would be a falsehood.
“Susan, I will take your advice under consideration, but I need to discuss what happened at Almack’s last night.”
“Did my idea work?” she asked excitedly. “I noticed you arrive, and then I didn’t see you again for the rest of the evening. A few ladies speculated that Countess Lieven asked you to leave.”
Emma’s mouth gaped. Her dearest friend had done the deed, not Mr. Kingsley, as she’d assumed. “You told Lady Lieven?”
“Of course!”
“How could you do such a thing, Susan? My mother now believes I went to Hell dressed as a boy!”
Susan drew back with a slight frown. “But you did.”
“And no one was supposed to know about that.”
“I am dreadfully sorry, Emma. I thought you didn’t care who knew.”
“Of course I care! Mamma is now sick with worry and furious about the idea that I entered a gaming hell dressed as a boy.” And now others had seen her there last night. Susan might have instigated the rumor, but Emma proved it correct by entering the establishment. She’d made a mess of things.
“Do you want me to speak to your mother? I can tell her it was a jest.”
“I doubt it will help.”
Susan placed her teacup down with a loud clink. “We must do something. I will ask my mother for help. She can speak to Countess Lieven about what happened and tell her it was a misunderstanding. A rumor with no substance.”
“Thank you, Susan. But I think it might be for the best if I stay banned from Almack’s.”
Now she owed Mr. Kingsley an apology for her behavior yesterday. She dreaded the idea of facing him to admit she was wrong about him, again. And she only had three more items on her list to complete. Perhaps Susan could help her with one detail. “Susan, your brother Oliver is quite the artist, is he not?”
Susan smiled. “Yes, much to Papa’s distaste. He would prefer Oliver to study law as Miles has done.”
“But he did have an instructor, did he not? A teacher who helped him perfect his art.”
“Of course! Mr. Bowles came into the house weekly when Oliver was home from Eton.”
“Do you think Mr. Bowles would instruct a lady?”
Her friend’s smile faded. “I am not certain. But my understanding is he lives in Soho.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “With his mistress.”
Emma shrugged, wondering why his living arrangements would matter. “Do you have his address in Soho?”
“No, I would never have been given that information.”
“Twenty-two Frith Street,” a male voice sounded from the threshold.
“Oliver!” Susan jumped to her feet and ran to hug her brother. “What are you doing home?”
Oliver Lancaster had the traditional good looks of all the Lancaster men with chestnut hair that tended to curl, warm brown eyes that usually shone with laughter, and a big grin. “Do not tell Papa, but I was thrown out of Cambridge.”
“Oh Oliver, Papa will be furious. Oxford now Cambridge!”
He disentangled himself from Susan’s arms and bowed to Emma. “Good afternoon, Miss Drake.”
Emma nodded at the young man. “Oliver.”
Oliver casually walked to the sofa and sat where his sister had been sitting. He poured himself tea and grabbed a biscuit. After swallowing a bite, he asked, “What has you inquiring after Mr. Bowles, Miss Drake?”
Emma explained her dilemma regarding an art instructor. “Do you think he would help me?”
Oliver laughed. “He’s an artist. If you’re willing to pay him, be assured, he will help you.”
“I can pay him. But the only condition is he must be willing to come to my sister’s home to teach me. My mother would never allow me to paint in oils.”
Oliver’s brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “A secret, eh? Then I shall definitely help you. Let’s say we set off to Soho straightaway?”
“Now?”
“Yes. No time like the present. It will also keep me out of the house for a while. I’m hoping to avoid my father for as long as possible. He is aware that I’m home but assumes it is only to attend the ball tomorrow.”
“Do you think we should send a note first to see if he is accepting callers?”
“No. The man is likely at home painting or teaching.” He finished his tea and biscuit before rising with his arm extended to Emma. “Shall we go?”
“I need to fetch my cloak,” Susan said with a smile.
“No,” Oliver replied. “You must stay here. Mother is expecting Baron what’s-his-name. The one with the lisp.”
“Summerfield.” Susan nodded. “She will be furious if I am not home when he pays a call. But I would prefer to accompany you both. Emma should have a chaperone.”
Emma chuckled. She’d known Oliver since he was eight. “Oliver is like a brother to me, Susan. We will be fine. I would say enjoy your call with Baron Summerfield, but I do remember you stating he was a dreadful bore.”
“Yes, indeed. I have told Mother several times that I will not accept him should he ask, yet she continues to let him call on us.” Susan released a long sigh. “I suppose I will have no choice but to stay.”
Susan turned her gaze on Oliver. “You had best keep Emma safe.”
“Of course I will. We are only going to Soho.”
“Yes, and there can be some dangerous ne'er-do-wells there,” Susan retorted with a scowl.
“We shall meet Mr. Bowles and determine if he has an interest in teaching me. Then Oliver will return me to my home.”
“Exactly,” Oliver added.
Before Susan could invent some reason for them not to leave, Emma followed Oliver out of the salon. The footman collected her cloak as they for the carriage. Oliver met her in the hall after retrieving his black greatcoat.
Emma smiled at the dashing figure. Oliver was the creative sort that young ladies fell in love with at the drop of a pin.
“Oh miss, wait for me,” Mary said, striding down the hall with a basket. “Look at the lovely oranges Mrs. Hanson gave us.”
Emma’s smile turned downward. What was she supposed to say to Mary? Her maid would insist on escorting her.
“Oh dear,” Oliver said, looking out at the rain. “I only have the phaeton, and there is not enough room for your maid.”
“Miss?” Mary frown at Oliver. “I can walk home. It is only a few blocks, and I have an umbrella. But do take the oranges, so I don’t struggle with them and the umbrella.”
“Of course.” Emma reached for the basket. “I am dreadfully sorry about making you walk back. Tell Mamma that I will be home in an hour or two.”
Mary glanced suspiciously between Oliver and Emma. “Where am I to tell her you went?”
That was indeed the question. Emma pondered ideas for a long moment before saying, “Just tell her you had a headache and returned home without me. She will assume I am still calling on Susan.”
Mary rubbed her temple quickly. “Well, at least then I am not lying to her. I do have a bit of an ache there today.”
“Very good, then,” Emma replied. “I shan’t be too long.”
Following Oliver out the door, Emma noticed the rain had turned into a downpour, increasing her guilt over her maid. It shouldn’t matter. They would have been forced to walk home together anyway. The two-seater phaeton would not give her much protection either. She was bound to become just as wet or wetter than Mary.
#
EMMA STOOD DRIPPING at the door of Mr. Bowles’ studio on Frith Street while Oliver used his cane to knock on the door. A sliver of apprehension danced up her spine. After a moment of waiting, she said, “Perhaps we should come back on another day.”
Oliver glanced over at her as she pushed back a damp strand of hair. “You do look like a drowned rat.”
“And you not much better.”
He laughed as he rapped his cane on the door again. “Carpe diem.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Seize the day, Miss Drake.”
He started to hit his cane again, but the door swung open and a man with graying brown hair stared at them. Emma’s mouth gaped slightly at the sight of the disheveled man. He wore a linen shirt open to his chest, a pair of black trousers covered in paint, and looked as if he hadn’t shaved in at least three days. This was the man Oliver thought should give her lessons?
“Bowles!” Oliver said, pushing past the man.
“Mr. Lancaster, what are you doing here?” Bowles asked before motioning Emma to enter too.
Emma’s mouth had barely returned to its closed position when she went slack-jawed to see a naked woman picking up a dressing gown. The woman turned and smiled over at her. Emma attempted to get her mouth shut as she stared at the young, blonde woman. Emma was sure the woman couldn’t be more than twenty, and yet, Mr. Bowles appeared to be at least twice her age.
“Are you his next model?”
“I beg your pardon?” Emma asked in a horrified tone.
The woman scanned Emma from head to toe. “I suppose you ain’t with those expensive clothes. Just as well. I ain’t ready to give up my little puss-puss yet.”
Mr. Bowles walked over to the woman and kissed her soundly. “And I am not ready to give you up either.” He looked at Oliver and Emma. “This is Lizzy Jones. Lizzy, this is one of my former students, Mr. Lancaster and...”
Bowles’ voice trailed off as if to remind Oliver that Emma had not been introduced.
“Excuse my manners,” Oliver muttered. “This is Miss Drake.”
“Mr. Lancaster. Miss Drake,” Lizzy said with a clumsy curtsy.
Emma did the same as she inched closer to the fire to warm herself.
“Lizzy, make us all some tea,” Bowles commanded to his model.
“Yes, sir.”
Emma was quite certain Lizzy was far more than his artistic model. She shivered, taking a step closer to the small fire burning in the hearth. The couple let the third floor of the building, but it was one large open room instead of various rooms as she was accustomed. At the far end of the room, a bed that would just fit two people stood with sheets and coverlet in a tangle. In the middle of the room, an easel with a half-finished painting of Lizzy in the nude took up a great deal of space. Against the wall, canvases and frames leaned haphazardly.
While in what must have been the attic of the original home, the lighting on this gray day was quite good. She could imagine how lovely the light must be on a sunny day. No wonder he lived and worked here.
“Do you have anything stronger than tea, Bowles? Emma and I are quite damp and cold.” Oliver took Emma’s cloak from her and set it closer to the fire to dry.
“I have two bottles of gin, but none of that lovely brandy we used to share when I was tutoring you.” Bowles walked to a small cabinet and grabbed a bottle and four glasses. After pouring the drinks, he handed one to each of them.
Emma sniffed it curiously. She had only ever had wine, brandy, and whisky.
“What shall we drink to?” Lizzy asked in an excited tone.
“A new student for you, Bowles,” Oliver said, holding up his glass.
Bowles stared at Oliver and then turned his gaze to Emma. “A new student?”
“Yes! Miss Drake would like to learn to paint in oils. I suggested you would be an excellent instructor.” Oliver still held his glass up, waiting for others to join in the celebratory drink.
Bowles’ brows furrowed. “I’ve never taught a lady. Besides, you can see, I’m working on my masterpiece. I need time to finish it.”
“This is your chance,” Oliver replied with a broad grin. “She is the sister to the Duchess of Worthington. And you would get to teach at the duke’s London home. Think of the possibilities. The duchess already has sired an heir, so if you do well with Miss Drake, the duchess may wish you to teach her son or some of the other children when they are old enough.”
Oliver leaned closer to Bowles. “Think about what that will do to your career. People will stand in line to buy your paintings.”
“Does she have any talent?”
“Her watercolors are beautiful, but she desires to try her hand at oils.”
“Well now.” Bowles rubbed his chin in thought. “She can pay me a fair wage?”
“Yes, I can,” Emma interjected, tired of Oliver speaking for her. “More than fair.”
“Are you certain, Miss Drake?” Oliver whispered, leaning closer to her. “I thought the duchess was paying for you.”
“No, Mr. Lancaster,” Emma replied with a tight smile. “I will compensate Mr. Bowles with my own money. Five shillings for two one-hour sessions a week to start.”
“Five shillings!” Lizzy exclaimed. “Lordy, think of the supplies you can buy with that.”
“Five shillings,” Bowles muttered. “For two hours a week?”
Emma nodded. “That should more than cover the expense, should it not?”
Bowles nodded and slowly smiled. Lifting his glass in salute, he said, “To trying something new!”
They clinked their glasses, and Emma sipped her gin. “Dreadful.”
The rest of the group laughed as they drained their glasses.
“Cheap gin not to your taste, Miss Drake?” Bowles asked, pouring more gin into everyone else’s glass.
“No, but then again, I’m not a brandy enthusiast either.”
Lizzy checked the pot on the stove. “Tea, miss?”
“Yes, please.” Finally feeling slightly warmer, Emma strolled over to the painting leaning against the wall. She had to admit the man had talent.
Lizzy brought over a chipped teacup. “I added milk and sugar.”
“Thank you.” Emma continued to examine the painting while the other sat by the fire, drinking their gin. Ignoring the group as they became more boisterous with each glass they consumed.
“What do you think, miss?” Lizzy asked from the sofa when Emma came to the painting on the easel.
“It’s quite good,” she replied hesitantly.
“Good?” Bowles asked from the sofa. “It’s bloody perfection! Lizzy’s body is perfection. The colors are perfection. The brush strokes are perfection.”
Lizzy giggled. “And the gin?”
“Perfection,” he replied with a gruff laugh as he took a long draught.
Emma placed her teacup on the table and looked over at Oliver. He lounged in the chair with his head back and his eyes closed. “How much gin did he have already?”
“Four glasses,” Oliver mumbled, tilting his head forward. “You should really have some.”
“No, thank you. And I believe you have had enough.”
He waved a hand in dismissal at her. “You’re as bad as my sister. Have a little fun.”
Have a little fun. Wasn’t that what her list was supposed to be all about? Getting out of her tight box and enjoying life. “Very well, then.”
Emma poured more gin in his glass and then reached for her glass. With one long swig, she drank it down, fighting nausea from the taste. The others roared with laughter.
“’ Bout damned time,” Bowles commented before adding more to his glass.
Emma felt a warming sensation radiate from her belly.
“Have more,” Oliver mumbled and then drank his glass of gin.
“I think I’ve had enough.” Glancing up at the clock, she gasped. How had she lost the last two hours? “Oliver, we really must leave. My mother will be expecting me home. If I don’t arrive soon, she will send a footman to your father’s home asking for me.”
“I’m in no position to drive a carriage at the moment,” he replied, pouring more gin into his glass. “Besides, we’re having fun here.”
“Here, here,” Bowles added.
Emma glanced over at Lizzy, who had fallen asleep with her head on Bowles’ shoulder. “I must leave, Oliver. Now. I will drive the phaeton.”
“Ladies don’t drive carriages,” he said with a laugh.
“I can manage.” And it would be good practice for the carriage race.
“Stop talking about leaving,” Bowles said. “Tell me what you want to paint. Shall I bring Lizzy to model for you?”
“No!” She couldn’t imagine Louisa’s horror if Lizzy accompanied Bowles. At this moment, Emma wasn’t positive Bowles was the right art instructor. “I would like to paint portraits. I have some lovely sketches that I could work on.”
“Sounds dreadfully boring.” Bowles sipped at his gin as Oliver’s eyes closed again.
Emma scowled at the tiresome man. Surely, she could find a better instructor than Mr. Bowles. “Tell me, Mr. Bowles, how many paintings have you sold?”
“Enough to live here,” he retorted with a glassy glare before finishing his drink. “How many have you sold?”
Hearing the condescension in his voice, she smiled over at him. “Two.”
Perhaps George and Jane's small watercolor portraits should not count, but her sisters had insisted on paying her for them.
Lizzy giggled. “He ain’t never sold a thing, miss. His teaching brings in the blunt.”
Precisely as Emma had thought. “Oliver, come along.”
Oliver grunted and then mumbled, “Not now. I need to sleep this off.”
Emma glanced over at Lizzy and Bowles, desperately trying to determine how to extradite herself from the situation. The look of contempt in Bowles’ brown eyes gave her a start. “I shall be going, then.”
Bowles nudged Lizzy to get up and see her out. “When do I start?”
Emma felt a wave of shock at his gall. “You do not start, sir. I will find another instructor. Good day.”
“But miss, it’s still damp,” Lizzy said, picking up the cloak from the chair near the fire.
“And it’s still raining, so I don’t believe it will matter.” Emma strode to Lizzy, grabbed her garment. Wrapping her wet cloak around her, Emma shivered. She glanced back and realized no one would open the door for her. With a sigh, she strode to the door and flung it open.
And stared into the cold blue eyes of Simon Kingsley.