“What’s wrong?” Lady Emily Southwell cried when Priscilla burst in on her late that afternoon. She set down her artist’s pallet and brush and wiped the bit of dark oil paint from her fingers onto the canvas smock covering her gown.
Priscilla found her tongue tied in shock. She wasn’t surprised Emily would care. They had been true friends for far too long. She wasn’t even surprised to find Emily painting. Emily was, after all, a talented artist who had recently joined that pinnacle of the art world, the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts. Priscilla was merely stunned to learn exactly what Emily was painting.
Or rather who.
James Cropper of the Bow Street Runners stood tall and confident, the polished oak of his staff of office in one hand, russet hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window.
“I thought you despised painting portraits,” Priscilla whispered as Emily pulled off her smock and stepped away from the canvas where Jamie’s likeness was slowly forming.
Emily’s skin turned rosy. “Father requested it.”
After Emily had suggested it, no doubt. Priscilla knew her friend was enamored of the handsome young detective, but surely Emily understood the flirtation was fruitless. Whoever heard of a duke’s daughter marrying a Bow Street Runner?
“That will be all for today, Jam . . . Mr. Cropper,” Emily said, dark curls bouncing as she nodded. Her maid Mary, a plump older woman, rose from a chair at the far side of the room as if to offer escort out.
Mr. Cropper did not look displeased by his dismissal. He probably didn’t relish standing so still for the hours it would take for Emily to paint him. Odd that he could find the time away from his duties, although Priscilla supposed that even Bow Street might be willing to acquiesce to a duke’s request.
“Miss Tate,” he said with a nod before turning to Emily. “Tomorrow at the same time?”
“Please,” Emily said, blush deepening.
His smile was positively wicked as he touched two fingers to his forehead. “Until later, then.”
“Until later,” she murmured.
As he quit the room with Mary at his heels, Priscilla stared at Emily. Her friend was glowing. Her usually pale skin had a becoming warmth about it, and there was no denying the light that shone in her dark eyes.
“Oh, Emily,” Priscilla said. “I’m so sorry.”
Emily raised her chin. “Don’t be. I find myself rather pleased with the whole situation.”
For now. But what would her father say if he knew the true extent of his daughter’s feelings? Emily was headed for heartbreak, Priscilla feared, if her secret love became known.
The thought brought her own circumstances thundering back to her. “Forgive the interruption,” she said, her limbs beginning to tremble, “but I must have your help. Something dreadful has happened.” She fished the note from her beaded reticule and handed it to Emily. “I just found this in my pocket.”
Emily frowned as she angled the scrap of parchment to the light as if to read it easier. Priscilla felt a chill remembering the stiff writing.
I no yer secrit. Stay away from the duke or else.
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