Ballrooms and Blackmail by Regina Scott

about, but it was
only a matter of time before she ran into someone she knew. What
would they say if they realized she was speaking with Bow
Street?
    She seized his arm and drew him across the
street and into the shade of a tree in the park there. Mary
scuttled in their wake.
    “I am very grateful for your help, Mr.
Cropper,” she assured him as he regarded her with upraised brows.
“Lady Emily and I are at our wit’s end.”
    She thought he might smile at the mention of
the woman he clearly admired, but he took a step back from her,
sobering further.
    “That’s why I wanted to talk to you before
approaching her,” he said. “I can’t take your case, Miss Tate.”
    Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Was he already
regretting the obvious chasm between a duke’s daughter and a
servant of the courts? Or had his recent brush with other members
of high Society like his nefarious half-brother, Lord Robert, left
him with a sour taste in his mouth?
    She peered up at him, filling her eyes with
tears and allowing her lower lip to tremble along with her voice.
“Oh, Mr. Cropper, I do wish you’d reconsider. I know you are very
busy, and your time is valuable but . . .”
    He sliced a hand down to cut her off. “It
isn’t the time or the money. It’s a clear conflict.”
    Priscilla straightened, frowning at him.
“Because you admire Emily?”
    He actually colored. “No. That is, I have
the highest regard for Lady Emily. The fact is, I’ve been ordered
to investigate you , Miss Tate.”
    Priscilla stared at him. “Me? By whom?”
    Jamie met her gaze. “The commission was
delivered to Bow Street in the name of Nathan Kent, personal
secretary to the Duke of Rottenford.”

Chapter
Twelve
    The moment Warburton opened the door of the
Emerson town house later that afternoon, Priscilla stalked inside,
leaving Mary to slip past him and hurry off to her other
duties.
    “I must speak to Lady Emily,” Priscilla
informed him. “Immediately.”
    She had known the butler since the first
time she’d visited Emily, at age eight, on a holiday from the
Barnsley School. Never had she seen him less than composed. But
this time, for a moment, his snowy brows drew down, and his face
saddened, as if he knew she was the bearer of ill tidings. Then he
inclined his head. “Of course, Miss Tate. This way.”
    Emily was in her painting room, dabbing
color on a massive battle scene, the windows shuttered and curtains
drawn, candles offering a golden light. Before meeting the
traitorous Mr. Cropper, she’d preferred larger canvases and darker
colors. Now the portrait she’d been painting of him was leaning
unceremoniously against the wall, and Priscilla could not help but
feel a certain vindication.
    “Your inamorata is a brute,” she said.
    Emily eyed her, hands moving surely across
the surface of her canvas. “I take it you’ve spoken with him
too.”
    Priscilla puffed out a sigh. “Yes. Though I
admit to walking about Mayfair for a time before coming here, I was
so upset. This is monstrous, Emily. Have you any idea how much
damage he could do?”
    Emily appeared to be focusing on a puddle of
blood in the center of her battle scene. “I tried to explain that
to him, but he said I wouldn’t understand his duty. I’m too much of
a Nob, it seems.”
    Her voice was as dead as the warriors in her
painting were. The sound cut across all Priscilla’s indignation,
her fear. She drew in a breath, then hurried to Emily’s side and
lay a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry this caused a rift between
you and Mr. Cropper. If I must, I can apologize to him. I won’t
mean it, but I’d do it for you.”
    “You needn’t bother,” she replied, face
turned away from Priscilla. “I should have realized this was
coming. We have had several quarrels recently. It seems Mr. Cropper
is all too aware of the differences in our stations. A shame, for I
was quite willing to overlook them.” She smeared the red and
dropped her brush into the pot, shoulders