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Chapter Four
“At last, my dear Artemis, you’ve finally come to your senses and given up all that teaching nonsense.” Thus proclaimed Roberta, Lady Wagstaff, in her customary strident tones as Artemis entered her aunt’s opulent drawing room. Seated upon a plumply cushioned damask armchair by the fire, the baroness was as regal as the Queen herself. Her bejeweled fingers stroked Bertie, her snow-white terrier, who was installed upon her lap. “Humph, although I see your dress sense hasn’t improved,” her aunt added with an imperious sniff. Through the lenses of her silver lorgnette, her cool gaze swept over Artemis’s disheveled form. “Indeed, you look like you’ve been cavorting in mud puddles, my gel.”
“One does what one can with a teacher’s allowance,” returned Artemis dryly. She was used to her aunt’s critical, bordering-on-rude observations about her less-than-stylish appearance and wasn’t the least bit offended. Indeed, needling each other had become somewhat of a perversely enjoyable pastime for both of them over the years. “And I got caught in the rain. So I should apologize in advance for dirtying your carpets.”
“Oh, don’t worry about the carpets,” declared Phoebe, rushing forward and enveloping Artemis in the warmest of hugs. “Welcome back to London, dearest sister.” She drew back and smiled, her doe-brown eyes aglow with unabashed delight. “Since your telegram arrived this morning, I’ve been abuzz with hope all day that you might turn up. And now, here you are! Just think of all the fun we’re going to have together. I’m certain both of us will be engaged, if not wed, before the Season ends.”
Artemis’s stomach lurched, then fell to her aunt’s now slightly soiled Axminster rug. She hated the fact that she was ostensibly here under false pretenses. That she’d really quit her post to support Lucy this Season, not Phoebe. Indeed, husband hunting—for herself or her sister—was the last thing on her mind. At some point, she’d have to set Phoebe and their aunt straight.
Aunt Roberta interrupted her troubled thoughts with a rather pointed “ahem” before continuing in a tone that brooked no argument. “I imagine you’ll want to freshen up before dinner. As usual, it’s at seven sharp.”
“Ah, about that.” Artemis winced. “I’m afraid my luggage has gone astray somewhere between Bath and London.”
Aunt Roberta waved a dismissive hand that only narrowly missed the pointed tips of Bertie’s ears. “I don’t think it will matter all that much. If you have any hope of snaring a husband this Season, you’ll need a new wardrobe anyway.”
Despite the fact she was four-and-twenty, Phoebe clapped her hands together and bounced on the spot like a small child who’d been presented with a Christmas stocking stuffed full of oranges and sweets. “We must visit Aunt Roberta’s French modiste. First thing tomorrow. Until then, you may borrow something of mine.”
Guilt twisted through Artemis’s belly once more as she followed Phoebe to the upper floors where the bedchambers lay. Her sister twittered away like a flock of chaffinches; she was clearly excited about the prospect of being released from domestic captivity. For several years now, Aunt Roberta, manipulative old tabby that she was, had insisted that she wouldn’t sponsor a Season for Phoebe until Artemis was ready to give up her “stubborn bluestocking ways” and have another Season too. It was her way of coercing Artemis into accepting the shackles of matrimony.
Sometimes, Artemis felt like she’d been forced to adopt the role of Katherina inTaming of the Shrewand poor Phoebe was Bianca, the younger sister who couldn’t wed until Katherina did. At any rate, Aunt Roberta wouldn’t make her, Artemis, marry some beastly fortune hunter like Petruchio. Or a ruthless cad.
At least, she didn’t think so.
***
Wallowing. To wallow.
At this present moment, that would have to be one of Artemis’s favorite words in the whole world. Because that’s exactly what she was doing. Wallowing in an enormous copper bathtub before an equally enormous fire in a ridiculously sumptuous bedchamber.
Of course, such extravagances werenotunexpected when one’s aunt was literally wallowing in money.
She released a sigh of drowsy contentment and leaned back in the tub. The last time she’d had anything resembling a bath like this had been two Christmastides ago when she’d visited Lucy and her family. At the Avon Academy, she’d always had to make do with a cracked ewer of tepid water and a hard scrap of astringent-smelling soap.
Lathering. Now that’s another lovely word.Artemis picked up a delicate cake of floral-scented soap, dipped it into the warm, sudsy water, then rubbed it along her arm, leaving a foamy trail in its wake. The bubbles caught the gleam of the firelight, illuminating the rainbows within.
Hmm, perhaps she could use that analogy in the Gothic romance she was currently penning,Lady Mirabella and the Midnight Monk. What if Count Bellugio, the “midnight monk” in question, came upon Lady Mirabella in her bath while a violent tempest raged outside the castle? He’d drop his cowl, revealing his rain-slick, black-as-midnight hair and dark hooded eyes—or perhaps storm-cloud gray eyes would be more enticing… His gaze would penetrate her very soul, and when he—
A knock on the door made Artemis jump, and the soap slipped into the water with a soft plop. “Who is it?” she called.
“It’s only me. And Hetty.” Phoebe and her lady’s maid entered the room with armfuls of fresh garments for Artemis to try on. “Apologies for interrupting.”
“No need to apologize.” Artemis retrieved the soap and then picked up a sponge. “In fact, I should thank you for lending me something to wear tonight.”
“I’m more than happy to.” Phoebe smiled as she draped an embroidered corset, matching drawers, and fine silk stockings across the tester bed’s brocade counterpane. “It’s a good thing we’re a similar size.” She lifted Artemis’s discarded jacket from the damp pile of clothes by the fire, and her expression shifted from pleasantly amiable to mildly disapproving. “I don’t mean to sound like Aunt Roberta, but your clothes are a little careworn and out of fashion. You have such a lovely figure, yet anyone would think you’re a—”
“Frumpy old spinster?” Artemis hooked one of her legs over the edge of the tub and slid the soapy sponge all the way to her toes.
“Well, no. I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” Phoebe passed the offending garments to Hetty to deal with before opening Artemis’s equally threadbare carpetbag. “But clearly a trip to the modiste is long overdue.”
Phoebe’s observations were quite correct, but Artemis didn’t wish to admit that she’d been neglecting her wardrobe so she could squirrel away most of her money to establish her college. She shrugged. “You know me. I’d rather have my nose in a novel or a philosophical text than the latest edition of theNew Monthly Belle Assemblée. In any case, sedate rather than fashionable apparel was the order of the day at the Avon Academy. Mrs. Parsons preferred it that way.”
“Mark my words, dearest Artemis, that’s all about to change.” Phoebe grinned. “The Jones sisters are about to be the talk of the Town. We’ll be the belles of every London ball.”
Oh, how was she to tell Phoebe that she’d be devoting most of her time to Lucy? That it was her friend’s summons that had brought her to London? How was she to juggle their needs and her own? It suddenly seemed like all too much.
To hide her discomfiture, Artemis lathered soap into her hair. She’d almost finished rinsing away the suds when Phoebe shrieked, and Artemis jumped for the second time, dropping the water pitcher onto the floor.
Dicken’s dick and dingleberries!Water splashed everywhere, soaking the indecently plush hearthrug. “What’s wrong?” When Artemis pushed a curtain of dripping locks out of her eyes, she expected to see a herd of stampeding elephants invading the room or, at the very least, a mouse.
