As if Lord Robert knew they were determined to thwart him, he called on Emily the next morning. Indeed, she hadn’t planned to follow him nearly so early, as she’d thought he wouldn’t rise before noon. Certainly Lady Minerva was still abed and not likely to attend them, which meant this was Emily’s chance to quiz him! Immediately she began preparing strategies. But then she learned he’d brought an acquaintance.
“Lady St. Gregory,” Warburton intoned as he ushered the lady and Lord Robert into the sitting room.
There she stood, the one person Emily most longed to meet. Emily could scarcely breathe with the enormity of it. A shame she didn’t look like a serious artist. Today of all days she’d donned her least favorite gown, a pink one with a hideous row of triple ruffles around the hem. Her father had had it made for her. She’d hoped she’d spill enough paint on it that she wouldn’t feel guilty giving the thing to the rag man. But painting had once again proven difficult, and the gown had won over The War of the Roses.
“I have been telling Lady St. Gregory all about your work,” Lord Robert explained after they had been seated in the claw-footed chairs near the fire.
Lady St. Gregory was already glancing about at the battle scenes. She was younger than Emily had expected, perhaps ten years Emily’s senior. Her glossy black hair was swept back from a high-cheek-boned face; her gaze was as icy blue as the short jacket and matching gown she wore. Her soft pink lips somehow managed to convey her feelings better than the rest of her calm face. As Lady St. Gregory’s lips thinned, Emily gathered with a sinking heart that the sculptress was not exactly pleased with what she saw.
“I’m so glad you could find time to visit,” Emily told her. “I’ve followed your work in the newspapers.”
“Yes, The Times in particular has been kind to me,” the lady acknowledged. She did not so much as lean back in the chair, sitting as ramrod straight as the head mistress of the Barnsley School always said a lady should sit. Miss Martingale would have adored Lady St. Gregory: the graceful way she held her gloved hands, the elegant tilt to her chin, the way her embroidered slippers just crossed at the ankles below the hem of her blue skirts, which had no ruffles whatsoever.
“And what made you decide upon battle scenes?” she asked.
“Yes, that was a bit odd,” Lord Robert agreed. “Though mind you, I think they’re heavenly.”
Emily kept the smile on her face. “I believe we should remember history and honor those who went before. That’s why I also paint myths and the deaths of great leaders.”
Those lips did not warm in the slightest, not even in understanding. “Historical epics. They were all the rage a few years ago.”
She made it sound as if Emily were hopelessly behind the times or blindly following a path laid out by others more talented. Emily swallowed. “I believe an artist should paint what moves her, my lady.”
Lady St. Gregory inclined her head. “I quite agree. Why do I find it difficult to believe that battle scenes and deaths move a young lady of your limited years?”
Emily felt as if she would explode like one of the shells in her battle scenes. She squeezed her knees together to keep from rising, and the ruffles bunched against her shins.
“Perhaps because you do not know me well,” she said with as much civility as she could manage. “I assure you I care passionately about the scenes I paint.”
“No doubt,” Lady St. Gregory said.
Why had she thought she would have anything in common with this icicle of a woman? There was no sensibility, no generosity of spirit. Lady St. Gregory very likely sculpted the stone by gazing at it in so withering a manner.
“Perhaps if I saw some variability,” the gatekeeper to the artistic world continued. “Some emotionality. Do you expect to finish anything else soon?”
The War of the Roses was still languishing upstairs, but she could not think it any more emotional. What was this insistence on emotion anyway?
“I have been busy,” Emily admitted, carefully omitting the reason. She couldn’t very well admit to spying on her betrothed when he was sitting smiling so charmingly a few feet from her.
“Ah, yes,” Lady St. Gregory said with a nod. “Lord Robert mentioned you were helping Miss Tate plan her come out ball. A shame you cannot attend.”
Emily’s smile was tight. “Whatever makes you say that? I assure you I will be there. I might even bring a painting to display.” She glanced at Lord Robert, daring him to contradict her.
He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Lady Emily is devoted to her craft,” he said to Lady St. Gregory. “I know how much she wants to impress you. As it is unlikely she will be attending, I thought you could view her work today. Surely you can see the genius in it.”
Emily felt her gaze softening. Did he truly understand what her painting meant to her, how much she longed to join the Royal Society? Had he sought out the sculptress simply to help Emily reach her dreams? No one had ever done anything of such magnitude for her before.
How very odd that it should be Lord Robert. Was this somehow part of his deception? What would it profit him?
“I can see that Lady Emily is talented,” Lady St. Gregory allowed. “I simply question her range.”
Range? What was that supposed to mean? She’d done battles at sea, battles on land, mythical battles in the air! What more did the woman want?
“I find the pieces quite realistic,” Lord Robert argued, “for all my dear Emily has never been to war. The horse in that one has a particularly mean look to it.” He shivered. “I’d not wish to meet its like.”
He was not helping the situation. Emily was tempted to ask him to wait in the library. Besides, she didn’t need a witness to her flogging.
“I find no fault in the execution of the pieces,” Lady St. Gregory assured him, “but she is quite correct, Lord Robert. I do not know her.” She leveled her cool gaze on Emily, and Emily had to fight not to squirm under it. “One of the things about great art is that one can learn something of the artist by looking at the creation. I see little of you in these.”
She could not have felt worse if Lady St. Gregory had slapped her. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, my lady.”
Lady St. Gregory’s smile was tight. “Very likely not.” She rose. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Emily. If you exhibit at Miss Tate’s ball, please send me word. Otherwise, I wish you luck in your marriage. You need not escort me, Lord Robert. I have other calls to make.”
No doubt to spread her joy. Emily could only manage a nod as the woman left.
Lord Robert stood and watched Lady St. Gregory leave, then shook his head. “My, that did not go well.”
“No, it did not.” She slumped in her seat, feeling as if even her bones had wilted. Was she truly such a terrible artist? Had she never managed to create a piece that spoke to others?
Lord Robert came to sit beside her. “Now, now,” he said, reaching out to pat her hand. “It is best to know the truth.”
Emily nodded miserably. “I suppose so. Yet I was so sure I was ready for the Royal Society.”
“It is all too easy to delude oneself when one cares as deeply as you do,” Lord Robert assured her. “But now that you know, you can go on to other things.”
Go on? Stop painting? She could as easily stop breathing! She forced her bones to straighten, her head to rise. “No, I must keep trying. If these are lacking, I must learn to do better.”
“How brave you are,” Lord Robert murmured. His finger caressed her cheek, and she felt as if he were tracing a pattern inside her. “Most people would surrender after such a set down.”
“But I can’t. Don’t you see?” She waved a hand around at all her battle scenes, feeling as if she’d been forced to go to war as well. “This, these paintings, my art, it’s who I am, Robert. Fate made me the daughter of a duke, but in my heart, I’m an artist.”
He gathered her close, and Emily stiffened. What was he doing? But before she could demand an explanation, he rested his head against hers. “I know you’re an artist, Emily,” he murmured. “You’ve painted your likeness on my heart, and I am awed by its beauty.”
How could he of all people know exactly the right words to say at that moment? He was supposed to be a scoundrel! Yet she could not help the warmth that stole over her, the desire to hug him close and swear to renew the fight. His large hand came up to rub her back in lazy circles. It was surprisingly pleasant.
She let her head fall to his shoulder as she sat cradled in his embrace. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps her work was enough. At the moment, she couldn’t remember why she’d wanted to join the Royal Society so badly. What were a bunch of stuffy old artists for a touch as warm as this?
What was she thinking? What was she doing?! She yanked herself out of his arms and stood on shaking legs. He gazed up at her, brows raised, eyes soft. He seemed to expect her to pledge her undying devotion.
And what was she to say? She knew where her devotion lay. The Royal Society was waiting, ready to recognize her as they had other accomplished artists among the aristocracy. Artists of the Royal Society were patronized by the Queen and the Royal Princesses, the works admired far and wide. She would be the most fortunate of mortals if she were allowed to join them.
“Thank you for bringing Lady St. Gregory,” she told Lord Robert. “It was most kind of you. I’m sure you understand when I say you’ve given me much to think about.”
He rose, smile gentle, as if he knew the storm that raged inside her. “Of course. But I shall see you the day after tomorrow, at our engagement dinner. We’ll be signing the settlement papers then.”
His tone was firm, and she knew she should agree. Once she signed those papers, she was as good as married. There’d be no crying off, not unless he did turn out to be something altogether horrid like a jewel thief. But at the moment, all she could give him was a nod. He seemed to accept that, for he offered her a bow and went to the door.
As soon as she knew he was gone, she collapsed onto the nearest chair. Why was he being so nice? He’d forgotten to mourn his own father, banished the woman he claimed to love from his feelings with no more thought than he’d give the morning’s tepid tea. Why encourage her? Why help her? Could it be Lord Robert felt something for her after all?
As it was, her feelings were as jumbled as an upset paint box. How wonderful to think someone cared as much about her painting as she did! How noble that he’d tried to find a compromise that allowed her to keep her dreams. How ridiculous that the best he could find to praise in her work was the nasty look on a horse’s face! How horrid that Lady St. Gregory of all people could see nothing more.
But Emily had to show her more! The ball was Emily’s last chance. Lady St. Gregory would never be convinced to return to the townhouse now. Emily had to create the perfect painting, a feast for the eyes, the epitome of beauty and grace, and all within the next six days!
Unfortunately, for any of that to happen, she must also prove Lord Robert a criminal, once and for all. And that meant following him now.
She just hoped he truly was a criminal and not simply out to steal her heart.