Jamie kept an eye on the Southwell townhouse over the next few days. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Wednesday marked the end of the week his superior had given him to clear up the case, and he knew another lay waiting for him at Bow Street. Besides, it wasn’t as if he could help Emily. She’d be preparing for her wedding. He imagined that would entail trips to Bond Street for fittings, perhaps consultations with the vicar. He didn’t much want to watch, to be constantly reminded she was about to give herself to another man. But he’d made a promise to Lady Minerva, so he loitered along the street, kept out of sight, and followed the coach whenever he saw Emily enter it.
But instead of shopping or visiting the church, both times she and Lady Minerva left the house the carriage took them to the stews, near where Jamie had followed her and her friends that day the beggar had accosted them. Both times they entered Messiers and Sons, the first time bringing a package, the second leaving with one.
Why were they going to a pawn shop? He could not conceive His Grace to be lacking in funds.
The other thing she did was dispatch notes, several a day. At first he followed the footman to see where they might be going, which led him to the homes of the Tates and Viscount Rollings. Clearly she was communicating with her friends. But when the footman ventured out of the Southwell townhouse again, the fellow looked both ways, then scampered across the street.
“Sorry, Mr. Cropper, sir,” he said to the tree Jamie had ducked behind. “Lady Minerva thought you might have more luck if she steamed open the notes before I deliver them.” He held out four missives, three of which clearly showed where the wax had been melted. “She says she’ll reseal them when you’re finished. And you’re to read her note first.”
Jamie could only shake his head at the lady’s ingenuity as he stepped out from behind the tree and accepted the parchment from the footman.
“Mr. Cropper,” Lady Minerva had written. “Lord Robert has delayed the wedding to allow my niece to attend the ball she and Miss Tate have been planning on this Friday. You would do well to attend.” Her signature was a mere scrawl at the bottom.
She advised him to attend as if his badge of office would be enough to see him through the doors. Bow Street Runners did not attend the balls of the aristocracy unless they had been hired as security.
Still, she’d given him an opportunity with these notes, and he’d be mad not to take it. He glanced at the first note Lady Minerva had opened. It was to a Lady St. Gregory, informing her that a painting would be displayed at the ball. Emily wrote the word with a capital B as if it were the most important event in London. Perhaps it was, from her point of view. She’d wanted to show the art world what she could do. This must be her chance. And it might well be her last night of freedom before marrying. He forced that thought from his head.
The second note was to Lady Skelcroft, asking her to wear the ruby brooch that had been stolen to the ball. Why would Emily care what Lady Skelcroft wore? Why was the brooch so important?
Frowning, he handed the two notes back to the footman and glanced at the last. It was to him. His fingers tightened on the parchment as he opened it.
“My dear Mr. Cropper,” Emily had written. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding. Please come to Miss Tate’s Ball at nine on Friday at the Elysium Rooms near Kensington Palace, and all will be explained to your satisfaction. Your friend, Lady Emily Southwell.”
So here was his invitation from the lady herself. Yet she’d called herself his friend, as if that relationship would possibly be satisfactory. And what did she hope to explain? That she’d bowed to her father’s wishes and agreed to marry Lord Robert? That anything more than a friendship between a Bow Street Runner and a duke’s daughter was unthinkable?
That she had feelings for him after all?
What a coxcomb! Very likely she only meant to explain that Lord Robert wasn’t the man he thought him. He didn’t much want to hear that. Yet there were a few matters he wanted to explain as well, that he had faith in her, that no matter what happened he would always stand beside her when she needed him, if only to cheer her as she flew.
“Will you have an answer, sir?” the footman asked, watching him.
Oh, he had an answer all right, but not one he wanted the footman or the canny Lady Minerva to intercept. He took the pencil from his pocket and carefully wrote his response, then handed the letter to the footman.
“Give Lady Emily that, if you would, and not a word about the others.”
The footman nodded. “Aye, sir. And may I say those of us on the staff are very much hoping you might win the day.” He ducked his head and hurried back across the street before Jamie could answer.
And what would he have said to that either? He very much hoped the same thing, despite the fact that he knew it to be impossible.
* * *
Emily stared at the note the footman returned to her. Jamie’s response was only a combination of numbers and letters written in pencil in a strong male hand: ER 9, L JC. The ER, 9, and JC she understood: He was confirming that he’d meet her at the Elysium Rooms at nine by including his initials. But that L. Her heart started beating faster. What could that possibly mean? Could he have forgiven what he must see as her betrayal? Did he have feelings for her after all? Oh, she could pin all her hopes on that letter!
By the time she walked into the entry hall of the Elysium Rooms Friday evening, she felt as frayed as the ends of an old shawl. She could only hope she looked better. Having had no time to commission a ball gown for the evening, 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 cheek. The weight of the Emerson emeralds pressed down on her chest, cool, solid, impressive in their gold settings.
“You look lovely, dear,” Lady Minerva had assured her as she and Emily alighted from the coach on the drive before the assembly rooms.
So did their destination. The Elysium 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. Knowing what tonight might mean, she could not catch her breath. The marble stairs to the door seemed too high, the entry hall impossibly long. But there was Priscilla, waiting for Emily in the receiving line.
Emily could only smile. Not a fellow was going to be able to keep his eyes off her friend tonight. Priscilla’s 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 warbled.
“What,” Lady Minerva whispered to Emily, “did she doubt that we meant our acceptances?”
Priscilla had more important news to relate. “Neither Lord Robert nor Mr. Cropper has arrived so far,” she 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 as they parted. “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 she’d thought. First, she had to deposit Lady Minerva on the couches with the other older ladies, and her aunt’s narrowed eyes told her that she suspected Emily was up to something. Then she had to detour around the arrivals, all of whom seemed to want to shake her hand and offer congratulations. And once she positioned herself at the door, 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?
Then a murmur ran through the crowd. 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 entry way. 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 on him, 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 an Irish wolfhound, its golden-eyed glare as bright as the jeweled chain tethering it to its mistress.
“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 as if to catch another glimpse of the massive dog. The overskirt of the white gown she wore 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 them.
“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 wolfhound 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. Her sapphires sparked at her neck. She minced past them with only a sidelong look out of the corners of her eyes, as if to make 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 on such brilliance.”
Daphne giggled.
Ariadne peered around her. “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 could only stare as well. 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 creamy statues 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.
The vista energized Daphne, for 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 far 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 bumps all along Emily’s arms.
“White peacock,” Ariadne explained. “Priscilla rented a dozen to parade the grounds. One must have gotten loose.”
“Either that or the wolfhound’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.
Lady Minerva raised a brow as Emily paused before them. The other older ladies and gentlemen around her aunt perched upon the velvet cushions, plumped 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 Lord Robert nor Jamie before a servant in glittering white livery shut the double doors to the entry way, and Priscilla and her parents turned to their waiting guests.
“That’s all right,” Ariadne murmured beside Emily. “He’ll simply be fashionably late. That’s the perfect trait for a villain.”
It certainly was. She 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 her overcome mother awkwardly on the shoulder of her gown, 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 explained. “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 locating Lord Robert she’d completely forgotten her painting! She’d had Warburton deliver it only this afternoon. As the other 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. Lady Minerva came up beside him and frowned at the piece, and Emily refused to ask her what she thought. 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 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.
“She always was a beauty,” Lady Minerva said with a sigh. “You favor her, I think, Emily.”
Her father’s hand came to rest on Emily’s 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 lovely gown. “Thank you both.”
She chanced a glance around and found everyone gazing at her mother. More than one eye glittered. Pricilla’s lips were trembling, and Daphne and Ariadne were wiping at their cheeks. Even the hermit was staring at the piece. She’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 behind her. “An interesting piece, Lady Emily. Not your usual style.”
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 the patroness of the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts frowning.
Lady Wakenoak surprised Emily with a kiss on one cheek. “Lord Robert is here, the naughty boy,” she murmured in Emily’s ear. “He’s made a game of the thing, you see. 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?
Robert’s mother evidently had no such concerns, for she bustled happily away. Emily turned to follow her and found the hermit standing there. He ducked his head when she looked at him, but for a moment she thought he meant to speak to her.
“Return to your cell,” Priscilla scolded, hurrying up to them. “Honestly. What kind of hermit wanders about ballrooms?”
As he slunk back to his corner, Priscilla turned to Emily. “We’re about to start the dancing. Has Lord Robert arrived?”
Emily nodded. “Yes. I just have to find him.”
“I’d help, but I must lead the set. Sorry!” She darted off in search of her partner. Emily didn’t dare follow.
Lord Robert was here, somewhere, likely watching her. She had to get him out among the other guests, confront him with Lady Skelcroft’s brooch, prove to the world he was a scoundrel.
Before something dreadful truly did happen.