Art and Artifice by Regina Scott Page A

her. She kept looking at
her outlined soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they
felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they
feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish to find someone close by who
loved them, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?
    She shook her head. This mawkish attitude was
quite unlike her. Surely Mr. Cropper had put such thoughts in her
head with his talk of how a wounded man felt about the situation.
She should be concentrating on creating something of worth,
something that would make Lady St. Gregory open her arms and
welcome Emily into the Royal Society. What could be finer than the
company of other artists, people who thought like she did, people
who understood and respected her? She could not let Lord Robert, or
James Cropper, spoil that future for her.
    Even though a certain Bow Street Runner tried
to spoil her evening.
    She had just started mixing her paints when
Warburton coughed from the doorway. “Mr. James Cropper to see you,
your ladyship,” he informed her when she glanced in his
direction.
    James Cropper, here? Perhaps he’d
reconsidered her request to investigate Lord Robert. What else
could he possibly have to say to her? The very thought had her
pulling off her apron and hurrying to follow Warburton down the
corridor. But instead of continuing downstairs to the sitting room,
he paused before another door.
    Emily frowned. “You put him in the
withdrawing room? That’s generally reserved for family and close
friends.”
    “Is he neither?” Warburton asked, one white
brow upraised. “My mistake.”
    She had never considered the fact that
Warburton might make a mistake. The very idea seemed preposterous.
But she had to agree that she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with
James Cropper.
    “Your aunt will be joining you shortly,”
Warburton promised before opening the door for her. She was only
glad to see that one of the footmen was already in the room,
stoking up the fire, which somehow did not seem as vivid as Mr.
Cropper’s hair.
    Or as determined as the frown he aimed her
way.
    * * *
    At the sound of the door opening, Jamie
turned from the fire to regard the woman he’d come to see. He was
ready to issue a stinging rebuke, a warning not to interfere in Bow
Street business. But the sight of her made the words dry up in his
mouth.
    Gone were the fine silk gowns, the prim white
gloves. Instead, a simple dress draped her lithe figure, and her
graceful, long-fingered hands were bare.
    No, not bare, he corrected himself. Color
speckled them—scarlet and navy and emerald. Paint? She painted!
He’d have to look at those canvasses downstairs again, but he’d
wager they were all hers. Small wonder she’d been so prickly when
he’d commented on them.
    “Lady Emily,” he said, remembering the
manners his mother had instilled in him and touching two fingers to
his brow in respect. “Thank you for receiving me.”
    “Mr. Cropper,” she said, moving into the room
more warily than her usual brisk manner. “Have you come to
apologize?”
    Jamie dropped his hand with a smile. “I
wasn’t aware I had done you a disservice, your ladyship.”
    “You refused my commission,” she pointed out,
approaching him with eyes narrowed. “Yet I find you skulking about
near Lord Robert’s home. Perhaps you’ve come to offer an
explanation.”
    He took a step closer, aware of the open door
and the footman at his back. “I’ve come to offer a warning. You’re
mucking about with things beyond your ken. Stop now, before someone
gets hurt.”
    She met him gaze for gaze. “Someone is
already hurt, Mr. Cropper.”
    Had she heard the rumors then? He needed
facts, not far-fetched fancies. “I’m not sure what you mean, Lady
Emily,” he stalled.
    Something was working in those dark eyes.
Frustration vied with a darker emotion. Despair? Had the dastard
dared to lay hands on her? Despite himself he touched her arm,
gently, carefully. “Tell me.”
    Her jaw worked a