La Petite Four Read Free

gold and brown blending in wild disarray, and his eyes were the gray of the storm. But his smile, well, his smile was positively wicked.
    As if her stare amused him, he touched two fingers to his forehead. An odd salute. Who was he? She hadn’t noticed him at the graduation ceremony. He couldn’t be anyone’s brother or cousin; she’d have heard.
    “Emily!” Priscilla called ahead of her. “This way.”
    “Lady Emily!” Miss Martingale called behind her. “I must have a word with you.”
    She was caught! Her heart leaped into her throat, and she clutched her locket with the absurd thought that it was the only thing holding her heart in her body. As the young man eyed her locket with a frown, she knew there was nothing for it. She lifted her dark green skirts, right in front of him, and ran once more.

2
    Thief!
    “Finches,” Priscilla said as the carriage rolled through the greening countryside on the way to London the next day. “We could set them amidst the roses I’ve ordered and have them serenade the guests. The ball is supposed to be an enchanted garden, after all. What do you think?”
    Emily was too busy looking back to answer. Was that the dust of another carriage approaching, or merely the dust they’d left behind? Was that squeal from the Tate carriage’s poorly made springs, or a voice ordering them to stop?
    “Emily?” Priscilla said, a little louder.
    Emily turned with a grimace. “Sorry. No finches, Pris. They’d fly into someone’s hair, or worse.”
    “Oh, I suppose,” Priscilla allowed. “But perhaps stuffed finches, then. Surely someone in London makes them. After all, we want this to be the most talked about event of the Season.”
    Mr. Tate, sitting across from them, managed a wan smile before turning his attention to the passing fields and hedges. Poor fellow. He couldn’t afford what Priscilla needed to secure her an advantageous marriage, but if Priscilla didn’t marry a wealthy gentleman, her father would have no money at all. Emily was glad His Grace had not put her in that position.
    Of course, if he insisted on her marrying Lord Robert, that would be something else entirely. She reached for her locket, stroking the gold with her fingers.
    And looked back once more. What if Lord Robert came pounding up on a black stallion and demanded her surrender? She couldn’t relax until she’d spoken to His Grace and knew her plans were safe. And she couldn’t quite attend to the plans for the wondrous ball until she’d figured out some way to show her paintings to Lady St. Gregory.
    Lady St. Gregory was the president of the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts, the one trusted by the queen to enlist new members. She sculpted in marble. Ariadne had read them an account of the lady’s most recent work just a month ago.
    “A triumph of movement and emotion,” The Times had said.
    Surely Lady St. Gregory would see the triumph in Emily’s work, even if Miss Martingale couldn’t.
    Emily wasn’t sure whether it was the heady tang of turpentine or the feathery touch of a brush that first seduced her to the arts, but she was generally happiest at an easel. She often remembered the look on her beloved art teacher’s face when Miss Alexander had seen Emily’s The Battle of Hastings . In it, William the Conqueror stood high on a hill, banner waving in the breeze, while strung out around him, as far as the eye could see, lay the bodies of fallen Saxons. It had taken Emily all term to paint. Miss Alexander had gazed at it, dark eyes wide, and said, “Oh, Lady Emily, this is very, very good.”
    If only Lady St. Gregory would agree!
    “I’m so glad we’re having the ball,” Priscilla said beside her, “rather than that little dinner Daphne and Ariadne’s mother has planned for them. I’ve already had two hundred acceptances of the three hundred invitations that were sent, and we still have nine days to go. Even your Lady St. Gregory accepted,” she added, as if sensing Emily’s