La Petite Four Read Free Page A

distraction.
    That was it! Emily stared at her. “Oh, Pris, now I’ve had a vision. If I exhibited a painting at the ball, Lady St. Gregory would have to recognize me!”
    Priscilla’s eyes widened in obvious horror. “No, no, no. You cannot turn the ball into an art exhibition.”
    “What else can I do?” Emily asked. “His Grace is too busy to help me. His aunt, who was supposed to be my chaperone, is up in Cumbria helping my sister and Cousin Charles prepare for their first baby, and who knows when the child will arrive. I’ll be lucky if I can leave the house until His Grace finds a replacement. The ball could be my only chance to gain Lady St. Gregory’s attention!”
    Priscilla grit her teeth, then raised a finger. “All right, you may display one, exactly one, painting at the ball. Perhaps I can persuade the orchestra to suffer it behind them on the platform.”
    That would never do. Lady St. Gregory might not even notice it. “No, Pris, if we do this, it must be up front.”
    Priscilla pressed her lips together as if she were trying to keep from saying something vile. Emily couldn’t blame her for being vexed. Priscilla had inordinately high hopes for this ball. Like Emily, she might get only one chance to impress.
    “Oh, as you wish,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “I’ll put it up front and surround it with a rose trellis. That should give it pride of place. But no battle scenes!”
    Emily frowned. What did Priscilla expect, watercolor bowls of fruit? Not likely. Emily used oils, bold strokes, dark colors; she brought to life important subjects like the tragic deaths of heroes and glorious, blood-drenched battles. Her scenes were so real, she fancied she felt the beat of the drummer calling the march, heard the roar of canons in the distance. When she painted, she quite forgot that any other world existed.
    “I’ll try for something in keeping with the theme,” she said. After all, there had been a War of the Roses, hadn’t there?
    Priscilla looked skeptical, but Emily turned to look back again. That problem had been solved, but what if Lord Robert reached London before them? What if he spoke to His Grace, her father, before she did?
    No, she shouldn’t worry. Ariadne had said Lord Robert’s mother was with him, so he wouldn’t rush. He’d told Miss Martingale they’d been visiting in the area and heard Emily required escort. What humbug. With His Grace just returned, she’d planned to ride home with Priscilla all along; her things had been packed and waiting for the Tate carriage.
    Which simply did not travel fast enough.
    Emily could not remain in her seat by the time they rolled into London the next evening, joining Priscilla in pressing her nose against the glass of the carriage window to stare at the Great City. Massive stone buildings soared into the air, blocking the darkening sky. One set was gracefully classical, another heavy and pompous, a third sprawling in all directions surrounded by ornate columns. In the crowded cobblestone squares, hawkers called for violets, penny-a-sheet newspapers, roasted nuts. Everywhere was noise, movement, color. Emily’s fingers trembled, and she wished she had her sketch book.
    The Emerson family town house in the Mayfair district was just as impressive, at three stories tall. She’d never been there, but she approved of the elegant sweep of stone, the bright gleam of brass on the red-lacquered door. Mr. Tate assisted her down as footmen in dark coats and breeches hurried out to bring in her trunks and boxes.
    Emily couldn’t help the warmth that flooded her when she saw Warburton waiting for her. The butler had been with His Grace as long as she could remember, and his hair had been white nearly that long. When she was younger, she used to think that one day she’d grow tall enough to look him straight in his bright blue eyes. She’d long since resigned herself to the fact that that was never going to happen. No one was quite as tall as